


addicted to the quiet type

by passive_phantom



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Body Worship, Bondage, Bratting, Bruising, Collars, Come Eating, Come Retention, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Consensual Kink, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Emotional Sex, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Gags, Gen, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Internal Watersports, Jealous Andrew Minyard, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Neil's a bratty sub with a short temper, Nicknames, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Paddling, Partial Suspension, Pet Names, Plot With Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Protective Andrew Minyard, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sexual Tension, Shibari, Slow Burn, Subdrop, Therapy, Watersports, bad short jokes about Andrew, but that's not the only thing that's short, more individual tags in chapter notes bc there's a lot of tags at this point, or to be more exact, still adding tags as i go~, that seems like a good tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 158,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passive_phantom/pseuds/passive_phantom
Summary: It starts as a bet. A really stupid bet, considering the circumstances. Neil would go to Eden's - the local BDSM club - with Kevin for two months. 'Socialization', Kevin called it. 'Making new friends'. 'Learning to act like a human fucking being for once'. (Kevin says a lot of things, few of them nice. But being right doesn't give him permission to be an asshole.)But Neil's as stupid as Kevin is tactless, apparently, because he agreed to the bet knowing FULL WELL that he's a kinky fucker who's been not-so-subtly pining for someone to dominate him for years. He's got a drawer full of lingerie and a backpack full of sex toys. A head full of fantasies. A pocket full of condoms. All he needs is someone to play with him - but that's where Andrew comes in.It feels a lot like torture to Neil, and that's exactly the problem: Neil loves being tortured. Maybe a little too much for his own damn good.Especially when Andrew's the one doing the torturing.(Kevin definitely didn't see this coming.)
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Kevin Day/Thea Muldani, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose
Comments: 502
Kudos: 1093





	1. A Losing Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone ask for another Andriel D/s fic??? No? okay that’s just me then well thanks anyway for reading hope y'all enjoy. it was supposed to be pwp but then too much plot happened and I don't know how to feel about it but time to stop procrastinating and post it! 
> 
> sometimes you just gotta roll with it, y’know? like we’re in a pandemic, life’s too short to fuck around blah blah or something idk.
> 
> Just a heads up: this chapter has a guy hitting on Neil and getting a little physical (non-consensually). It's a really short interaction and not something I thought warranted a full non-con warning, but if that's something you're sensitive to please proceed with caution. Also very short mentions of v*mit but nothing graphic. Please message me before reading if you have any concerns!
> 
> Also, if there are any warnings/tags I miss for a chapter let me know in the comments. I'll do my best to tag things at the start of each chapter so if y'all don't want to read certain things you'll have a heads up, but I might not catch everything so don't be shy about letting me know if you'd like something tagged!
> 
> title credit: American Teeth - Gemini

Neil is sitting at the end of the counter at Eden’s, kicking his feet against the bar stool as he waits for Kevin to finish sucking face with Thea somewhere in the dark recesses of the club. 

It’s been a long night. The neon lights are a little too bright, which might mean he’s been drinking too much, but it’s almost Halloween and hell will freeze over before he misses out on a single night of Eden’s Mischief Week. Even if his head hurts. Even if he needs a cigarette. Even if what he really wants is to go home and crawl into bed and pretend that he doesn’t have to be up at 8am the next morning for work. 

His poor mood has everything to do with the highlight of his night an hour ago: getting puked on. It had kind of ruined his outfit - not that Neil had been wearing much at the time (tonight’s theme had been _sexy,_ which was vague enough that Neil ended up in a pair of tiny red cat ears, red booty shorts, and a thin elastic strap that runs from his red collar all the way down his back to the garter belt around his waist). 

Thankfully, that meant that when a man in a thong and a crop top with a pumpkin on it puked on Neil’s leg, he only had to grab a fistful of paper towels to wipe off his thigh. After, Roland had taken pity on Neil and dug his own oversized hoodie from the break room to offer Neil. Sure, he doesn’t feel nearly as sexy in the oversized NASA sweatshirt, but it smells a little like Roland and is soft enough and long enough that he can ball up the sleeves in his fists to make little paws. Which is keeping him entertained now that Kevin’s disappeared.

Unfortunately somewhere in the shuffle, Neil’s cigarettes and lighter disappeared. He couldn’t be assed to look for them at the time (what with trying not to let the vomit drip onto his knee-high leather boots), but now that he’s comfortably warm and a little buzzed and nestled into a soft hoodie, the only thing that he wants is a cigarette to quell his headache and mild jealousy (he’d never admit to being jealous of Kevin, but _come on,_ he’s the one getting puked on and sitting alone at a bar during Mischief Week while Kevin are off having fun).

Another song starts playing as Neil twirls his shot glass and sinks deeper into the sweatshirt, curling in on himself as he scans the bar for Kevin. It feels like a waste to be giving up so early, but being vomited on really has a way of ruining the fun. He’s been coming to Eden’s for almost two months now - as part of an ill-fated bet that he’s seriously regretting now - and while he’s not entirely comfortable sitting alone at the bar, he recognizes enough faces to feel at ease: Roland, Jeremy, Jean, Thea, Kevin. More often than not, he can spend the entire evening bumming free sodas off of Roland.

But tonight, he’s paying for something neon orange and sickly sweet with a wicked alcohol content that burns going down because he wants to forget the mess he’s gotten himself into: the bet. It started off small, just between him and Kevin, and had been the result of both of them getting drunk and fighting about Neil’s reclusive habits. Kevin was tired of watching Neil wallow each weekend away on the couch, and Neil was getting worse and worse at hiding his jealousy every time he watched Kevin put on his collar and leave with Thea for an evening at Eden’s. 

Kevin had insisted that although Eden’s was a BDSM club that it was still first and foremost a _club_. Just because there were subs and Doms and scenes didn’t take away from the music and the alcohol, if Neil didn’t mind the whips and collars and whatnot. Kevin - naïve, deluded Kevin - was convinced that taking Neil to Eden’s would be appropriate socialization. Up until that point, neither of them had really talked about kink before. Neil knew what went on between Kevin and Thea, but he tried to block all of it out: the bruises, the shouts of ecstasy behind closed doors, the collars Kevin became more and more open about wearing in public over time. Neil had no interest discussing Kevin’s sex life. Ever.

What Kevin didn’t know at the time of the bet (bless his heart) was that three years ago, Neil had picked up a bad habit of buying lingerie anytime he was anxious or depressed, resulting in an extensive secret stash of cute outfits and accessories that would make any pretty sub blush. Kevin also didn't know that during that time, Neil cultivated a preference for submissive fantasies - being gagged, bound, spanked, blindfolded, humiliated, _dominated_. Sure, he’d never explored those fantasies with a partner, but he wasn’t the sheltered virgin Kevin thought he was. 

But what Neil didn’t realize was that making the bet was shooting himself in the foot. With Kevin betting that Neil would enjoy something at Eden’s - even just the alcohol or the bright lights and loud music - it was ~~probably~~ definitely a stupid bet for Neil to make. Especially considering that Neil already knew he liked BDSM and had been thinking about getting involved in the scene more seriously prior to Kevin's stupid bed. 

What Neil hadn’t expected was that he’d like so much more of the BDSM scene than he originally thought he would. Hadn’t everyone gotten off to the idea of being blindfolded and spanked, the feel of pain sharp against his ass as he pictured a Dom holding him down with unforgiving arms? Forcing a cock down his throat until tears ran down his face? But the power dynamics between a Dom and sub started unravelling Neil's existing fantasies in ways that felt abstract and confusing. And now, sitting at the bar alone on a weeknight, he wants more than this. 

His pride will never allow him to admit that Kevin was absolutely right though, and his pleasure won't allow him to go back to those pre-Eden’s days where he spent his Saturday evenings scrolling through websites for lace panties that come with matching hair clips. The more he's seen of Eden’s, the more he wants to be a part of it, the more he aches with his need to submit, to be dominated and controlled and manhandled. 

With only a few more days until the two-month bet is up, Neil doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He has the sinking feeling that he’s going to have to admit Kevin was right; he can’t give up coming to Eden’s. Even if it costs him the (two hundred dollar) bet. 

The funny thing is that despite all of the longing and fantasies, Neil hasn’t even played with any of the Doms at Eden’s yet. Every time Kevin picks out his own wristbands at the door - black for sub, green for participant, red for taken - Neil freezes. He wants to take a black sub band desperately, but he’s also a little terrified because as much as he likes dressing in pretty things and carefully tying himself up at home and crafting intricate fantasies of what he _thinks_ he’ll like, he’s never done anything BDSM-related with a partner. Which means that Neil ends up taking the neon orange observer band every week. He can't bring himself to take the sub wristband; even that small admission feels like it would be too big of a commitment. Although lately, he lingers a little longer at the front before taking the orange band. Jean, who’s the bouncer most of the time when Neil and Kevin come on Saturday nights, only nods his agreement at Neil’s choice and mutters, _you’ll know when you’re ready,_ as if he’s some kind of tall, French BDSM-Yoda. 

And since Neil hasn’t done a single scene, he’s going to have to lose the bet and pay Kevin $200 if he wants to keep coming back to Eden’s until he’s ready to step up and choose the sub band. Really, it’s his own damn fault for being stupid enough to make the bet in the first place. 

“Hey, babe,” a voice startles Neil from behind, shaking him from his thoughts. “Need some company?” 

Neil ignores the question completely. In his experience, less interaction means less attention, and he’s not in the mood tonight for a stranger to chat him up. He tries to telepathically summon Kevin by staring into the depths of his empty shot glass, which means he’s either more drunk than he first thought or more desperate than he’s giving himself credit for. He wishes he was at home, he wishes that he hadn't been puked on, he wishes he had a Dom to tell this man to back off so he didn't have to come up with the words himself when his tongue feels like velvet in his own mouth. 

God, he might be more drunk than he gave himself credit for. 

He wishes he could just shut his eyes and not have to deal with this. 

But wishes don’t work that way, and Kevin disappeared some time ago. He’s probably already upstairs with Thea in one of the private VIP rooms. The man steps closer, trailing his fingers down Neil’s cheek as he leans down and whispers in his ear.

“Saw you dancing earlier like a little slut.” His nails bite into Neil’s skin when they catch under his chin to force Neil to turn and look at him. 

Neil doesn’t like what he sees. The guy is over six feet tall and built like a tank, but worst of all is his age. Most men over forty remind Neil too much of his own father, and Neil can’t help the wave of fear that crashes over him. Any other night, he would’ve told the guy to piss off. And if that didn’t work, he would’ve run. He would’ve been out the door in a heartbeat, but he’s trying to be better. Sure, it might not be the best time to try a new coping mechanism when he's drunk, but Neil has never been known for his well-planned-out ideas. 

He tries to ignore the man, and shoves back from the bar to put space between them. But he might've overestimated the amount of coordination he has right now, or underestimated the effects of three tequila shots plus whatever orange monstrosity he gulped down a few minutes ago. In his attempt to get away, he almost falls off his bar stool and the man takes that as an invitation to reach out and grab Neil's arm to catch him from falling over. 

But he doesn't let go once Neil is steady on his feet; he crowds Neil into the bar until the edge of the granite slab is pressing into his back, a sharp pain dragging his thoughts to dark places.

Perhaps he should listen to his running instincts next time, but it’s too late now.

Assuming there will be a next time. 

“I could fuck you right here,” the man growls, leaning close enough that Neil can almost see his pupils dilating. Their bodies are pressed against each other, and a sick twist of nausea wrenches through Neil’s gut when the man grabs Neil’s hip possessively. “No one would stop me.”

It's not true. People aren't allowed to just fuck on the bar at Eden's, but this man looks like he might not care so much about the rules right now. Panic surges in Neil's chest, and it’s all he can do to hold himself together as he quickly inventories the man’s wristbands: Dom, participant, single. Neil regrets accepting the sweatshirt from Roland. Up until now, no one’s ever approached him when he’s worn the orange observer band because it means hands-off, and Eden’s patrons were very respectful of the system - usually. 

Neil desperately tries to signal Roland over to him with his eyes, but Roland’s back is turned across the bar as he laughs with a couple of Doms while he makes their drinks. Neil shrinks into the sweatshirt a little more, and feels the man flick the cat ear headband still balanced on Neil’s head. “You’d be such a good little slut for me, wouldn’t you?” 

The funny thing is, Neil has imagined this moment when he got dressed earlier. As he put on the cat ears and admired the way their dark red fur matched his auburn hair, he imagined a Dom coming up to him at the bar and sliding their hands around his waist - obviously sans NASA sweatshirt, since he hadn’t planned getting puked on - and calling him a naughty little slut while nipping at his ears and calling him to a heel.

Of course, as soon as Neil had picked the observer band, all of that went out the proverbial window. But his sweatshirt paws are covering up his wristband now, and he can’t move with the man so close, can’t even find the strength to breathe as he wonders if this is his fault. He should just _say_ something. Anything, really, would be better than acquiescent silence, but being cornered while drunk and lonely has left him paralyzed.

The hand on his jaw presses harder, trying to squeeze an answer out of Neil, and the bar pressing into his back is sending his mind to dark places. Trapped - he’s trapped, and suddenly the air in the room is too thick, too sweaty, too boozy, and it sticks in his lungs like honey. He can feel every inch of skin pressed against him as the man cages him in, one hand digging into Neil’s jaw, the other now clamped around Neil’s bicep. In an almost fascinating moment of detachment, Neil starts to wonder just how fucked he is. Maybe it’s the alcohol making him feel all floaty, but he starts to wonder if it would be easier to shut his eyes and stop listening to his instincts. Pretend that he’s not really here, that it’s not really him getting pinned against the bar by a stranger. 

Even as he thinks it, he goes a little limp in the man’s arms, which only makes the guy _purr._ Like a fucking _cat._ And when Neil wonders, as his vision goes a little grey with terror, if he’s about to pass out, a second voice cuts through the buzzing in his head.

“Find someone else to play with.”

The interruption doesn’t stop the man immediately. His hand tightens around Neil’s arm, as if staking a claim.

“Why? Unless he’s yours, Minyard, I don’t think -”

“He belongs to nobody,” the second voice says. “Check his bands.” 

Of course it’s _Andrew Minyard:_ every Dom wants to be him, every sub wants to be his. Or at least Neil assumes every sub wants to belong to Andrew, because how could they not? Andrew is confidence and control and power and dark possessive safety. The growl low in Andrew’s throat makes Neil shiver involuntarily as he twists in the man's grip to try and face Andrew. 

Andrew immediately catches Neil's attention, and there's an unspoken accusation when his gaze flicks briefly towards Neil's wrists: _where are you bands?_

Neil sneers at the man pinning him to the bar and tries to raise his wrist, but gets lost in the movement when Andrew crosses his arms over his chest and drunk-Neil's mind short-circuits briefly. For a second, Neil thinks this is a very lifelike dream. 

Andrew looks like sex. Not that Neil knows what sex looks like, but the phrase suddenly feels very right when Andrew crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at Neil. He's a stereotypical Dom tonight, dressed in black from head to toe. He looks lethal, sharp-edged, and dangerous, despite barely breaking five foot even. And despite being shorter than Neil, Andrew radiates an enormous amount of barely concealed disgust and anger towards the man who's pressed Neil against the bar. Sure, Andrew’s face might be gilded in apathy, but his eyes burn golden in the neon lights of the club and Neil knows that Andrew is hiding something dangerous beneath his composed exterior.

He doesn’t have time to analyze it too closely, though, because the room starts to spin and he shuts his eyes to ward off the overwhelming dizziness.

Fuck whatever he was drinking. Fuck alcohol and fuck Kevin for leaving him here alone, fuck the stupid sweatshirt that's making it too hot to breathe. Fuck himself for forgetting about keeping the bands on his wrist visible. Fuck the ashamed feeling that skitters just under the surface of his skin - this isn’t his fault, Neil _knows_ that, but when he sees Andrew sneer at the man, he feels Andrew's revulsion like a hot stone in his gut. 

Fuck Andrew's protection.

And finally, not that this is the most appropriate time, considering the situation: fuck Andrew Minyard.

Neil doesn’t need a reminder right now of how painfully inexperienced he is with BDSM, or how pitifully helpless he is in the face of a threat that's shaped a little too much like his past. He should’ve handled this on his own without needing a complete stranger step in to defend his honor. He shouldn't have gotten comfortable enough to drink at Eden's. He shouldn't have let Kevin wander off. He shouldn't have trusted Roland to keep an eye out for him. He shouldn't have believed Jean would have his back.

_Weak._

His father’s voice bubbles up from somewhere Neil has long buried it, and brings a wave of fresh nausea with it.

 _Weak fucking kid I raised._ Neil swears he can hear his father’s laugh taunting him as the man takes a step back from Neil. _See how easy he backed off? For once, your stupid fucking mouth could’ve saved you. None of this would’ve happened if you’d just spoken up, but you're weak, Nathaniel._

As soon as there’s space between Neil and the man, Andrew takes a step forward.

“Show him your wristband,” he commands Neil, who takes a shuddering breath and holds up his arm until the sleeve falls down just enough to expose the neon orange band. The older man sneers at Neil, but takes another step back, finally letting go of Neil's arm.

“You’re not supposed to cover those up,” the man snaps at Neil. 

“And _you’re_ supposed to double-check them regardless,” Andrew says with an almost bored shrug. “You know the rules; orange means he’s clearly not playing tonight. Either leave him alone or I’ll get Jean.” 

The older man sends a dirty scowl in Neil’s direction before he turns and disappears into the crowd, and Neil wants to sink through the floor. If he could form coherent sentences he’d thank Andrew, but words still elude him as he tries to get his racing heart under control.

He doesn’t know if his unfamiliarity with Andrew is making the situation worse or better. He’s seen Andrew frequently enough over the past two months - always with a different sub - but he’s never got up the nerve to talk to him because Andrew is terrifying. He’s the stereotypical type of Dom Neil imagined himself with: black leather, steel expression, arms that look like they could throw Neil around like a ragdoll. Quiet, brooding, observant. Everything that makes Neil’s heart beat faster, and everything Neil probably can’t have, if Andrew’s pissed off face right now is anything to go by. Hell, he doesn’t even know Andrew well enough to know if they’d even be compatible as Dom and sub. Even though Neil’s never had a Dom, he knows that he’ll never be anything but a brat of a sub (based on his shining personality), and Andrew’s rotation of subs are all perfectly behaved, obedient, and soft-spoken. Pretty much the exact opposite of Neil. 

Last week, for instance, the sub that went on stage with Andrew had been poise-perfect in a stiff posture collar, eyes demure and downcast the entire time. _No, Sir,_ and _yes, Sir._ Careful to always keep a full step behind Andrew the entire way to the stage. Perfect manners, perfect training. And when Andrew whipped his sub, Neil had watched, curious and mesmerized. 

Neil shakes himself out of his thoughts, and realizes Andrew is still standing in front of him, looking angry but not saying a thing.

“Sorry,” Neil says under his breath, unable to explain exactly what he’s sorry for but feeling the urge to say it anyway. Sorry for getting drunk. Sorry for forgetting the rules and being a general inconvenience; it’s an apology open to interpretation, he decides.

For a few minutes, Andrew doesn’t say anything. The silence between them - a seemingly impossible thing, as the music is ear-splitting - starts to feel suffocating. There’s laughter and friendly shouting and dancing all around him. Across the bar, a Domme in a booth is directing her sub to strip on the table. And Neil’s tired of feeling like he’s missing out on the fun. The realization that he’s so far outside of it all hits him like a punch to the gut. He wants to go home just as desperately as he wants to stay here, and feels stupid for his indecisiveness. If it was up to him, he probably would’ve left already, but Kevin and Thea drove him and they're both still AWOL. Tears are creeping up on him when Andrew’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. 

“Don’t apologize for that guy,” Andrew says. It takes Neil a moment to remember he’d said sorry to Andrew, and when he does, his face flushes. Mercifully, Andrew doesn’t comment on it. “That wasn’t your fault. He’s not your Dom, so he should’ve never touched you without checking first. Even if your wristband wasn’t visible.”

Neil nods once, trying to will Andrew away. He doesn’t want to cry in front of a Dom like Andrew, who probably has zero tolerance for softness in his subs. Andrew is a different breed of Dom, nothing like Roland, who calls all his subs _pet_ and runs his fingers through their hair. Nothing like Jean, who speaks to his sub, Jeremy, in quiet French and keeps a steadying hand on his back or neck or wrist or waist anytime they’re within touching distance. A Dom like Andrew cannot have patience for a drunk college kid having a breakdown in the middle of a BDSM club. Frankly, the most surprising part of this evening is that Andrew hasn’t left yet. 

But Andrew stays in place, like a barrier between Neil and the rest of the club. Sturdy, unmoving. Neil swallows dryly as he keeps his eyes on his shot glass. He doesn’t want to see if Andrew is looking at him with disgust or boredom or pity; he doesn’t know which would be worse. 

“Who did you come here with?” Andrew asks. His voice is stern enough that Neil manages to squeak out an answer. 

“Kevin Day.”

Andrew snorts, the first sound Neil’s heard from him that is amusement-adjacent. He’s not smiling, but when Neil looks up in surprise, there’s a curious spark in Andrew’s gaze. 

“He’s not going to be done for a while,” Andrew says. When Neil only frowns in confusion, Andrew clarifies: “Kevin disappeared into VIP half an hour ago with Thea and a mysterious duffel bag. I’m guessing they’re going to be a while.” 

Neil deflates into his seat more, not bothering to question why Andrew knows this off the top of his head. Neil had only gotten drunk because Kevin was the designated driver, and he hadn’t planned on needing to leave early. He’d never had to before, but he guesses Uber is always an option.

“Do you want me to find him for you?” Andrew asks, and his question is almost quiet enough to get swallowed by the music. Neil has to resist the urge to lean closer and ask him to say it again, whisper those words into his ear until Neil begs him to make it all better. To fix this for him. 

And Neil almost nods, because he wants so desperately to leave, wants so desperately for someone else to baby him, drape an arm around his shoulder and buckle him into the front seat of Kevin’s car and drive him home and tuck him into bed with an aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand. Someone to pull his socks off one by one, and wipe the sweat from his forehead, clean the residue of _club_ and _fear_ and _drunkenness_ off of him in slow, deliberate strokes. 

He doesn’t want to ruin Kevin’s fun. Nothing really terrible had happened - the older man had left as soon as Andrew showed up - but Neil still feels a little like shivering as he remembers the scraping fingers against his cheek, the crushing hand around his arm. 

“No,” Neil says, his shame winning out over his common sense as he takes off his ears and tosses them onto the bar, not caring where they fall. He pulls up the hood of the sweatshirt, trying to crawl inside of it as much as possible. He even lets the sleeves fall back down until his wristband is covered again. 

“Do you want me to stay with you until he comes back?” 

This question surprises Neil; he never imagined Andrew would be so generous, for lack of a better word. He’s sure there must be a thousand other things Andrew could be doing with his Monday night at Eden’s other than babysitting a wet blanket, but he can’t say that he dislikes having Andrew nearby right now. Still, he doesn’t have an answer for this question, so he stares at his hands in his lap. 

“I need you to say yes if you want me to stay. I’m not going to force my company on you,” Andrew says in a dark voice. Neil shivers again, this time a pleasant feeling that tickles his spine as he stops thinking about his father and getting drunk and making bad decisions and ruining Kevin’s night and fucking up over and over and over again. His world narrows down to the shot glass in his hands and the velvet timbre of Andrew’s voice. He might be imagining the command hiding behind those words, but he responds automatically before he can stop himself. 

“Yes, Sir,” he sighs quietly. 

Andrew freezes, realizing the line being crossed before Neil realizes it himself.

“I’m not your Dom,” Andrew says harshly. Still, he sits down at the bar next to Neil, but is careful to keep an empty space between them. 

Neil feels his blush spread across his cheeks, and he can’t stop the way his heart beats faster when it’s clear Andrew isn’t leaving because of Neil’s misstep. But he also can’t ask Andrew to move closer; it’d be crossing another line. Still, he can’t help the way his chest inexplicably aches at the distance between them. He doesn’t even try to blame it on the alcohol. 

They sit this way for a while, with Andrew as a sort of barrier between Neil and the rest of the club, and Neil finds himself relaxing slowly. Usually he’d feel panicked and cornered with a stranger so close, but with Andrew, he just feels secure. Like there’s a bubble keeping out the rest of the world. 

And he doesn't feel like Andrew's a stranger, even though this is their first real conversation. Andrew has been in Neil's periphery long enough for Neil to take notice of him weeks ago.

When Roland comes by to offer Neil another shot, he bites his lip. He's on the brink of making another bad decision when Andrew wordlessly reaches over and turns Neil’s shot glass upside down. Roland quirks a curious eyebrow at Neil and then Andrew, but there isn’t much Neil can say. He accepts that he’s not drinking anymore tonight - it's probably a good idea, anyway, and Roland leaves them alone.

But Neil wants to give Kevin a little more time before crashing his fun, and a part of him hopes his buzz will help ease him back into a more spooky mood. He doesn't want to give up on the night entirely yet, but after moping next to Andrew at the bar for another half hour, he realizes that his evening isn’t going to get better. Kevin clearly isn’t coming down anytime soon, and Neil is still jumpy any time someone comes too close. Even though Andrew glares murderously at anyone who comes within several feet of either of them, Neil feels himself slipping back into an uncomfortable place as the music grows louder with the approach of midnight. He hates feeling helpless.

He doesn't want Andrew's help. 

But he won't need Andrew’s help if he just calls it quits and goes home for the rest of the night. And with that realization, he waves down Roland so he can pay his tab and leave. 

“Done already?” Roland asks when he slides Neil's receipt towards him with a pitying smile. 

“Yeah,” Neil says. “Can you tell Kevin if he comes looking? I’ll text him, but you know how he is."

“No problem,” Roland says.

Kevin’s always been prone to jump to worst-case-scenarios wherever Neil is concerned. He once called the police when Neil didn’t come back from class on time, even though Neil had reminded him earlier that he’d be back late due to a meeting with his advisor. Not that Kevin doesn't have reason to worry; he has plenty. Neil’s family, for one, and the Moriyamas, for two - not that either of them have done anything to Neil in a couple of years. Still, Kevin worries. And when Kevin worries, he doesn’t always think straight. 

“Thanks,” Neil says to Roland, and maybe also to Andrew, as he stands up slowly. 

The room only spins a little bit this time. He takes a steadying breath, getting ready to face the crowd and the stares and shouts and flashing lights, when Andrew calls him back. 

“You’re not driving,” Andrew says. Not a command, but not quite a question. 

“I'm not. Kevin was my ride, so I’ll just get an Uber or a cab or something,” Neil says with a shrug, but his body feels too loose, and he ends up stumbling to the side. He frowns, wondering if it’s the anxiety or alcohol causing his clumsiness. 

“In that?” Andrew asks, taking a very long time to draw his eyes across the sweatshirt that barely covers Neil's ass, down to his bare thighs, his knee-high boots, the kitten ears clutched in one hand where Neil had retrieved them from where he’d thrown them on the bar. “Are you stupid? You’re not even wearing pants. You could get a venereal disease from the seats.” 

“I'm fine,” Neil says, tired of feeling like a burden. He can’t wait for Kevin any longer, and he doesn’t need Andrew acting like he’s a delicate flower. Although, to be fair, Neil has been acting _exactly_ like that for the past hour. He flushes at the realization, and drops his gaze to the floor. 

“I would feel better knowing you made it home safely after what happened earlier,” Andrew says. He isn’t stopping Neil from leaving, he isn’t even close enough to touch Neil, but the pull of his words keeps Neil firmly in place.

"Then I'll walk," Neil says, scrunching up his face. He's tired. He doesn't want to walk, actually, but now that he's said it, he can't exactly take it back.

"I didn’t spend the last hour making sure you were safe just so you could get hypothermia on the way home because you're stubborn," Andrew says.

“Yeah? Well I never asked for your help. And you’re not my Dom, remember?” Neil retorts in a whiny voice, throwing Andrew’s words from earlier back at him. He knows it sounds childish and petty, but he can’t help himself. He’s just bitter about everyone else at Eden’s enjoying themselves while he’s going to head home to make sure there aren’t any vomit stains on his garter belt. It was _expensive_ after all, and part of a set. He won’t be able to wear it again without thinking of how miserable tonight has been. 

But all of his thoughts abandon him when he sees Andrew’s lips quirk up in the slightest shadow of a smile. It’s there and gone before Neil can comment on it, but his heart still races when Andrew takes a single step closer to him and narrows his eyes. Neil feels a blush burning hot on his cheeks. There’s a question in the air between them, something Neil doesn’t want to examine too closely right now. Or ever, if he’s being honest, because he knows it’ll only lead to disappointment.

“No. I’m not your Dom,” Andrew agrees, “Especially considering that the little altercation earlier would’ve never happened if I was.” Andrew doesn’t move closer, but Neil swears he can feel electricity between them as Andrew tilts his head to one side, considering Neil with narrowed eyes. “I protect what’s mine.” 

Neil doesn’t back down. He stares at Andrew, uncertain where his confidence is coming from and not bothering to question it. 

“That’s not what it looked like last weekend,” Neil says, making a vague gesture towards the stage which is currently packed with dancing bodies as he references Andrew’s last scene. 

“Your inexperience is showing,” Andrew says in a smooth voice that’s incredibly patronizing. Neil can’t help the way his hands ball into fists inside of the oversized sleeves, and he feels small and childish in Andrew’s thrall. 

“I’m not inexperienced,” Neil whines.

“You covered your wristband,” Andrew points out, and this time he reaches out and pinches Neil's sleeve, which is covering his wristband again. “That’s not the kind of mistake someone makes twice. So you're either dumb enough to make the same mistake twice or … Inexperienced. And I don’t think you’re that kind of dumb.” He tugs on Neil's sleeve. "Or maybe you are, since it's already covered. _Again."_

When Andrew lets go of Neil's sleeve, he touches his own bands: a purple one for Dom, and an orange one for observer. Neil hadn’t even noticed them earlier, and is appropriately distracted by them. 

“You’re not participating tonight?” Neil asks, taken aback. 

“What have I done over the past hour to make you think I’m participating tonight?” Andrew says with genuine curiosity and dumbfounded incredulity.

Neil shrugs, and knows that his cheeks are permanently stained red at this point. “Dunno,” he mumbles.

“What was that?” Andrew asks, taking a very small step forward. It feels like too much, like not enough.

“I don’t know,” Neil repeats a little louder, clearing his throat.

“Well, this was enlightening. I’m leaving,” Andrew says. “Enjoy your walk home or Uber or whatever.”

He turns on his heel and heads towards the door. Neil has to unglue his feet from the floor, hurrying to catch up. He slips through the crowd behind Andrew, unsure why he’s unable to just call an Uber and let Andrew go on his merry way so they can pretend this entire night never happened.

Neil's called an Uber a million times before, after all - never in so little clothing, since Kevin always drives him home from Eden’s - but he's called them for rides to work when Dan isn't around, and he's taken them to the airport, so he doesn’t _really_ think anything bad would happen, even in his current state of undress. But he doesn't want to, not after what Andrew said.

Andrew shoves through the front door and holds a tag out to the valet, who drops a sleek black key fob into Andrew’s palm. 

“Wait,” Neil says breathlessly as he catches up. “Can I have a ride?” 

Andrew doesn’t hesitate. He just nods once, and then wordlessly heads out into the parking lot with Neil close on his heels. 

His car, unsurprisingly, is black. Neil really shouldn’t be impressed by the growl of the Maserati’s engine, or the soft caress of the leather seats against his bare thighs, or the way Andrew shifts from first gear into second without even looking down, seamlessly weaving through downtown traffic until Neil directs him to stop in front of his apartment complex. He _shouldn’t_ be impressed by any of this, but he is. 

Andrew doesn’t speak, even as he pulls to a stop in front of Neil’s building, choosing instead to keep his jaw clenched shut as his hand grips the gear shaft. When it’s clear Andrew has nothing to add, Neil opens his door and steps out. 

“Thank you. For tonight,” he says, before realizing how that sounds. Really, he should thank Andrew for staying with him at the bar, but what comes out is: “I mean, thanks for the ride.” 

Andrew’s stare is no less intense here than it was at Eden’s, and Neil’s stomach flutters when Andrew lights a cigarette before responding. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m doing the world a disservice by ensuring your continued survival?”

Neil blinks at him once, twice, before his face splits into a sadistic grin. “Don’t worry. There are still plenty of other people who want me dead.”

There’s a little too much truth to those words, an edge that only someone who knows Neil’s family history could hear. He meant for it to sound over-dramatic, but Andrew’s face looks suddenly serious. As though he knows Neil isn’t lying or exaggerating. But that's impossible, because Andrew doesn’t know anything about him, just like Neil doesn't know anything about Andrew.

It still unsettles something in Neil that leaves him scurrying up the steps of his building without another word, not bothering to look back once before typing in the access code and opening the front door. 

Slowly, he relaxes into the familiarity of his surroundings: the stained carpet next to the entryway, the row of mailboxes along the wall, the way the stairwell door sticks when he tries to open it. While he sinks into the feeling of _home_ and _safe,_ he bunches the sleeves of Roland's sweatshirt around his hands and breathes in the scent deeply. For a few moments, it still smells like Andrew’s car: crisp leather and pine air freshener and an undercurrent of smoke and something uniquely Andrew. 

By the time he showers and picks out something black and satin to wear to bed (which has nothing to do with Andrew, nothing to do with the fact that he owns almost exclusively pastel shades of blue and yellow and green and pink), the sweatshirt just smells like sticky bar floors and Roland. 

Neil doesn’t even pretend not to be disappointed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a good chunk of this already written but nothing's edited so updates are going to be sporadic, especially since my work is super busy right now.
> 
> BUT!!! That means you can leave requests in the comments below!! I can't guarantee to fit anything in since I already have a lot written but I like hearing ideas and if there's something I haven't already written (ahem, just check some of the tags for an idea of things to come).
> 
> I know this first chapter isn't explicit but seriously it's going to get there so don't be shy with requests. Maybe I'm going to regret this later but ??? too late for that now I guess haha
> 
> (also if you see typos let me know and I'll fix them, I do my best to edit but sometimes I miss shit) <3


	2. Not Your Dom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/tags: Kevin's trying his best to be a good friend, okay? He's *trying*.  
> That's it. That's the tags this week.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments + kudos on the first chapter! I haven't responded to any yet because I've been super busy at work since our clinics are transitioning back to in-person services at the end of this month and everyone's freaking out because covid is still definitely a thing here :( but! I have the next 30k words written already and will be working on editing that in between writing new chapters so there should be updates semi-regularly (probably once a week, or at the latest every other week).

“You left with Andrew _Minyard,_ ” Kevin shouts, throwing the lights on as he storms into Neil’s room.

“What time is it?” Neil groans, trying to remember why Kevin is barging into his room at the ass-crack of dawn.

“It’s time to act like you have more than a handful of brain cells left,” Kevin quips unhelpfully. “You left with _Andrew Minyard._ I thought you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere or strung up in his dungeon or -”

“Andrew has a dungeon?” Neil asks with a little too much enthusiasm as he picks up on the least important part of that sentence. He coughs, a poor attempt at a distraction, and quickly adds, “Those exist?”

“Yes, those exist,” Kevin sighs, throwing himself onto the end of Neil’s bed dramatically. “My point is that you could be dead. You left with a strange Dom -”

“Andrew isn’t a strange Dom.”

“If he’s not _your_ Dom, he might as well be,” Kevin snaps. “You disappeared. And that shit with Roland - texting is a _thing,_ okay? Don’t make Roland be your messenger. If I hadn’t seen him before Thea and I left, I could've called the police! Something could’ve happened to you.” 

Right. Because Neil had meant to text Kevin, but kind of forgot when he’d ended up in Andrew’s car. So he has the good sense to nod along to Kevin’s lecture silently.

Calling it an overreaction doesn’t take into account the fact that Kevin was the one to realize Neil had been kidnapped by his father during his Freshman year. That Kevin was the one who sat in their dorm and tried to rationalize Neil’s disappearance for almost an entire day before the excuses ran thin: _he’s on a long run. He’s getting some dinner. He has a night class. Maybe he stayed late afterwords. He could’ve crashed at Matt and Dan’s place for the night._

Saying Neil’s disappearance didn’t affect Kevin would be a lie, and Neil isn’t cruel enough to hold Kevin’s lingering anxiety against him. So no, it's not an overreaction. It's a perfectly reasonable reaction.

“Look, all I’m saying is that if you can’t text me, call me. You’re not fucking allergic to your phone, okay?” Kevin says.

Neil says nothing. Not because he's being purposefully difficult, but because he knows he can’t promise this to Kevin. _No guarantees,_ that’s what Dan says to him all the time. It’s how Neil feels now: _no guarantees._ It probably makes him a shitty friend. 

"Sorry," Neil says softly.

Kevin nods, accepting Neil's halfhearted apology at face value. “Andrew didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

“No. God, no."

His face burns as he remembers last night. If anything, Andrew had prevented something potentially terrible from happening, but he stops himself short of explaining the situation. He doesn’t want Kevin to think he needs a babysitter when they’re at Eden’s. Sure, his wristband had been covered on accident. But as Andrew said, that isn’t a mistake you make twice, so Neil has high hopes that he’ll always remember to keep his wristbands visible from now on. No reason for Kevin to worry. 

“Maybe this was a mistake,” Kevin says, mostly to himself. “I shouldn’t have made you come to Eden’s in the first place.” 

Neil has to bite back his initial response, which is _I_ **_wanted_ ** _to go to Eden’s._ The problem is he doesn’t want to talk about his sexual fantasies with Kevin when he's hungover. Or when it's still dark out. Or ever, actually. He settles on a much more neutral response that is technically true.

“I don’t mind it."

“Thea said I pushed you too hard,” Kevin says. “That I should’ve let you come on your own terms.”

As always, Thea is the voice of reason that Neil and Kevin both seem to lack. 

“It’s fine.”

“Not fine,” Kevin mumbles. “Andrew could’ve hurt you. He makes me nervous.”

“You don’t know him,” Neil says. 

“Neither do you.” 

Both of them sit in uncomfortable silence. Neil doesn’t know why he’s defending Andrew. Andrew had stuck up for him because - well, Neil doesn’t know why, but he can hazard a guess: pity, secondhand embarrassment … maybe Andrew has a thing for telling off other Doms. It’s not Neil’s place to pry. What Neil _does_ know is that they’d barely spoken, and what little Andrew said had been tinged with annoyed impatience. And, hell, Andrew hadn’t even gotten out of his car when he dropped Neil off. It’s not like the guy was trying to take advantage of a shitty situation; Neil respected that, even if he kind of wished Andrew hadn't been such a complete gentleman. Guys like Andrew - black leather, brooding, silent - are supposed to be assholes. It would be a boldfaced lie if Neil said he wouldn't have let Andrew fuck him last night, no strings attached, in one of the VIP rooms at Eden's. 

But that hadn't happened, to Neil's great disappointment, and Andrew doesn't deserve to have his reputation dragged through the mud because Neil doesn't want to admit to making a mistake.

“He helped me,” Neil finally says, picking at his nails. He speaks in starts and stops as he tells Kevin the truth - or part of it, at least. “There was a guy. After I got puked on - Roland’s sweatshirt -” Neil holds up his arms pitifully, since he’s still wearing it. “The wristband -” Neil waves his wrist, trying to form a coherent sentence and failing. “The guy couldn’t see it. I froze. Andrew reminded him to check and got him to back off.”

It’s a highly sanitized re-telling of last night’s events, but Neil isn’t about to talk about his daddy issues with Kevin Day of all people. He can't explain why he froze, and he certainly doesn't want to relive the feeling of that Dom's hands digging into the scar tissue on his cheek, saying how much he wanted to fuck him. A shiver runs down Neil's spine that he suppresses before Kevin can comment on it.

“You should’ve called out for Roland or Jean or - hell, even Jeremy would’ve been a better choice,” Kevin says.

“Roland was busy. And Andrew was already there.” 

“Of _course_ Andrew was there,” Kevin mutters under his breath. Neil’s about to ask what he means by that when Kevin stands up. “Just charge your phone next time. I tried calling a thousand times and it kept going to voicemail.” 

Neil reaches towards his nightstand, and frowns when his fingers don’t find his phone. 

“I swear I brought it home,” he says, throwing back his covers to search his sheets, as if his phone would’ve gotten lost there during the night. When he comes up empty, Kevin only rolls his eyes.

“I’ll call Roland later to see if he can look for it this afternoon before they open.” 

Neil doesn't bother apologizing this time. It's implied in his puppy-dog eyes and woe-is-clumsy-me smile. An act Kevin is well acquainted with but still entirely too susceptible to.

“Whatever,” Kevin says, wincing a little as he stands up, reminding Neil that Kevin had disappeared to the VIP rooms very early on in the night. 

At least _one_ of them had a good time. 

\--- 

Neil’s shift starts too early. Kevin had woken him up at an ungodly hour, when Thea dropped him off bruised and sore, and even though Neil tried to go back to sleep afterwards, something kept him tossing and turning for the rest of the morning.

Caffeine is the only perk of his job. He works at Jim’s Bean, the local coffee shop that’s only two blocks from a perfectly normal Starbucks. Jim - the owner - usually opens on his own at 5 each day. Neil’s shift usually starts right as the rush of students comes in, but the cafe is surprisingly empty when he clocks in. His morning passes excruciatingly slowly without his phone. He might hate it, but without it, he can’t work on homework or read or mindlessly scroll through whatever website has caught his fancy for a few hours. Instead, he's left to miserably stare at the clock in between customers. It isn't until he's rearranged the pastry case for the fifth time that Jim sends him into the back room to use his restless energy to take inventory. 

It’s almost noon when the front door jingles open, the bells breaking the silence as someone comes inside. Neil barely glances up from his spot beneath the counter where he’s taking stock of lids and cups when he sees a familiar scowling face. His double-take only seems to make Andrew look angrier. In his rush to stand, Neil hits his head on the handle of the espresso machine and winces as the syrup pump next to it falls over and starts leaking. He scrambles to upright it and sop up the mess before Andrew notices, but the damage is clearly done.

“Andrew,” Neil says coolly, trying to pretend that everything is _fine._

It’s not, of course. He’s face to face with _Andrew_ in the full light of day. Messy blond hair, hazel eyes, leather jacket, box-of-cigarettes-sticking-out-of-the-pocket, Andrew. Neil swears he can even smell his aftershave over the burned-coffee smell of Jim's.

Of course he’s not _fine._

“Neil,” Andrew says back just as coolly. 

Hearing his name from Andrew’s mouth is an enlightening experience, if only because Neil realizes Andrew has never said his name up until this moment. Which leads to the realization that Neil hadn’t told Andrew his name last night, and it’s not like Neil has been around Eden’s long enough to have a reputation like Andrew does, right? A spark of hope lights his heart as he wonders how Andrew knows his name, how Andrew knew to step in and help him last night, how -

“How did you know I wasn’t wearing a participant band last night?” Neil blurts out. Frankly, he doesn’t know where the question comes from, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s impressed with his sleuthing skills. How _did_ Andrew know he was only participating, since his band was obviously covered at the time? He doesn’t expect Andrew to answer, though, since it’s a) rude and b) a complete non-sequitur, but Andrew’s expression shifts from angry and annoyed to slightly-less-angry and annoyed. 

And then Neil realizes the much more apt question would have been _how in the hell are you here, at my place of employment, in the middle of the day?_

“Eden’s doesn’t allow non-consensual scenes on the main floor unless the Dungeon Master knows. Makes it too difficult to know when to stop actual non-consensual bullshit from happening,” Andrew says, and then pauses, as if weighing what he’s about to admit. “Plus, Jean says you never scene.” 

Now that Andrew mentions it, Neil vaguely remembers the rules from his first night at Eden’s - not that he listened very closely. He was a little distracted by the neon lights and music and regardless, Jean had been shirtless. How could anyone be expected to remember the rules when they're recited by a Dom with arms that could lift a small car? (Like a Peugeot. Or a tiny Fiat. Neil might be horny but he's not delusional, and even Jean couldn't lift a Ford Explorer.) (Probably.) 

However, that doesn’t explain how or why Jean told Andrew that Neil doesn’t scene. He makes a mental note to ask Jean about it later, feeling as though he’s pushed his luck enough with Andrew today.

“Right,” Neil says instead, promptly forgetting how to have an actual conversation.

Unlike last night, Andrew’s silent scrutiny is calming this morning. Right up until Neil's ringtone startles them both. Neil reaches into his pocket instinctively - it’s his ringtone after all - but comes up empty.

 _Right_. Because he’d lost his phone last night.

“This yours?” Andrew grits out, pulling Neil’s phone out of his pocket and tossing it onto the counter. 

Neil blinks back at him, startled by the sudden reappearance of his missing phone. Not startled that Andrew is returning it, but startled that it hadn't succumbed to the depths of Eden's Lost and Found box. To be perfectly honest, he’d rather hand it back to Andrew, but since he delivered it so nicely to Neil's place of employment, Neil can’t exactly be ungrateful right now. 

“You should be more careful next time,” Andrew says. “And tell your _fr_ _iend_ to let you live a little.”

Neil frowns as he scrolls through more than a dozen missed calls and texts from Kevin, and two texts from his project partner from his literature class. He doubts that the contact labelled ‘reading shit’ is the _friend_ Andrew is referring to.

“I thought I lost it at Eden’s,” Neil says quietly as he slips his phone into his pocket. It’s got 100% battery, which is suspicious because he definitely, purposefully, keeps it below 10% battery whenever possible. It gives him plausible deniability when Kevin asks why he hasn’t been answering texts.

On the bright side, now Kevin doesn’t have to drive him out to Eden’s to find it later. Not that Neil is being avoidant of Eden’s; tonight’s Mischief Week theme is _vamp_ and he already had an outfit picked out. But after last night, he could use a break from drinking and dancing and dressing up - at least until he knows he can handle himself on his own again. He doesn’t want to burden Kevin by following him around the entire time, and spending the entire night looking over his shoulder doesn’t sound fun.

“You’re a mess,” Andrew says in an unimpressed voice as he turns to leave. 

“That sounds awfully like a compliment to me,” Neil says right before Andrew reaches the door.

“I’ve dealt with bratty subs before,” Andrew says darkly, without looking back. “Never worth the trouble they cause. I feel sorry for all of your future Doms.”

It isn’t until Andrew is long gone that Neil parses that sentence. He doesn’t want future _Dom_ ** _s_** _._ He wants one Dom - Andrew. And it isn’t until halfway through his Early American History class later that he realizes that Andrew basically called him a bratty sub and he can’t help but smile. He’s _never_ taken a submissive band at Eden’s. Hell, he doesn’t know if he can call himself a sub when he’s never actually scened with a Dom before. And yet that’s exactly what Andrew called him. He ignores the part about being a bratty sub specifically (because denial is what bratty subs do best), and wonders how Andrew knew he was a sub. Maybe it was the accidental submission last night when Neil called him _Sir,_ or when he let Andrew flip his shot glass over to stop him from drinking more, or how easily he agreed to let Andrew drive him home. Maybe it isn’t a mystery at all, actually.

But what distracts Neil the most is how Andrew’s voice was gravely as he said bratty subs aren’t worth the trouble, as if Andrew was still trying to convince himself of that fact.

\---

Neil spends the next couple of days _busy_ , which is code for _trying to distract himself from the constant thoughts of a certain Dom._ He hangs out with Matt and Dan, who host a pre-Halloween party on Friday night where Neil drinks too much monster punch and ends up puking in their neighbor’s bushes. He rationalizes that it makes up for getting puked on at Eden’s, and then spends most of Halloween morning itself sleeping off the subsequent hangover. 

It isn’t until Halloween proper - Saturday night - that Kevin approaches Neil. He’s dressed to the nines for Eden’s big Halloween-party-slash-Mischief-Week-finale, a black leather collar with four D-rings clasped around his neck. Neil knows it’s one of Kevin’s favorites (given to him by Thea, of course), and his accompanying tight red leather briefs barely make it a costume. But the tacky plastic devil horns get the message across. Simple, but hot.

He asks Neil to fix his hair, and Neil spends a few minutes twisting Kevin’s dark curls into a sexy bedhead-like mess. When Neil finally steps back, Kevin is practically purring. 

“Looks good,” Neil says as he returns to the couch with his laptop. “Say hi to Thea for me.” 

“You aren’t coming?” Kevin asks, only letting a little hurt sneaking into his voice. 

Neil glances down at his sweatpants and oversized t-shirt, which should be explanation enough. He’s been debating it the entire day but hasn’t come to a good decision, which means it’s probably best to stay home. “I don’t think so.” 

Kevin visibly deflates. “Oh.” 

“Maybe next week,” Neil offers, settling his laptop in his lap as he clicks onto a website that makes custom collars. Not that Neil has a Dom, not that Neil has earned a collar, not that he could even afford one of these once he inevitably loses the bet to Kevin within the next few days - but at the very least, he can spend the next four hours watching Netflix and clicking through glossy leather collars with embroidered phrases like _daddy’s slut_ and _BITCH_ and _fuckboy._ A boy can dream, even if he can’t make that dream a reality yet.

“Well, if you change your mind …” Kevin lets his sentence trail off as he glances at his reflection one last time, checking his curls again. 

“Go. Enjoy,” Neil says, shooing him away. 

Kevin gives him another sad smile and promises to bring Neil some candy before Thea calls to tell him to get his ass outside. 

Without Kevin, the apartment is very quiet. They’ve lived in the small two-bedroom unit for a little over a year now, and Neil feels safe here, even if it still doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to him. At the very least, there are three different kinds of locks on the door and the cupboards are fully stocked with real food and his bed is a real mattress with a real box spring instead of a pile of blankets in the corner of an abandoned construction site or the couch of a motel room off of an interstate somewhere in rural America. It’s an improvement over his childhood. It’s _better._ But sometimes, it feels like he’s just days away from losing it all. 

Neil is starting to think that he’s spent so much time running from his past that he doesn’t know how to stop running from his future, too. 

He lights a candle from his collection - an expensive one Dan and Matt gave him for Christmas last year, from Tom Ford - and within a few minutes the entire room smells like patchouli and spice. Slowly, Neil relaxes as he scrolls through the website, pausing to click on a collar that catches his eye.

It’s a thin, half-inch pink leather collar, with a locking matte black buckle, and matte black studs on the sides. On the front are four real-diamond letters that sparkle in the photo: _BRAT_. All upper-case. Neil reaches up absently towards his own throat, finding only empty skin, and is entranced. It’s over a thousand dollars (on account of the diamonds) and it’s entirely impractical for rough play since it’s so thin and delicate. Something he could never afford, or justify.

But he indulges his fantasies for a moment. Usually, he imagines what having a collar of his own would feel like. Tonight, for the first time, he wants to know what _Andrew’s_ collar would feel like. He wonders if submitting to Andrew would feel heavy, like silence and secrets and control, or light, like freedom and safety and easy weightlessness. He imagines Andrew making him kneel, cupping Neil’s chin in his hand as he purrs in Neil’s ear that he’s _his_ fucking brat. He can almost feel Andrew’s hand coming around the back of his neck to buckle the collar in place before tugging on it twice to test it. Then yanking him upright into a searing kiss, all teeth and tongue.

Neil’s phone vibrates, jerking him back to reality. He fully expects a text from Kevin trying to make him jealous - a picture of Jean wrapped around Jeremy's waist or Roland pouring shots - but it’s not Kevin.

The message flashes on his screen: _are_ _you coming tonight?_ It’s an unknown number, so Neil ignores it. Even if it had been a known number, he would’ve ignored it. He wants to wallow tonight.

He sets his phone down and clicks away from the brat collar, scrolling again through ridiculously expensive collars until another one catches his eye: black lambskin, two inches thick with three equally-spaced O-rings and small chains draped between each one. More practical for play. Sturdy, compared to the diamond brat collar. Neil forces himself to click away again. It isn’t his style. It shouldn’t catch his eye because usually he likes pastel things, soft things, velvety, delicate things: kitten collars with gauzy lace in baby-blue like Jeremy has, soft lace straps in shades of bruised purple and grey like Kevin has, velvet chokers that feel entirely too breakable around his throat. He’s never really looked at black leather _any_ thing, but he keeps picturing Andrew fastening a collar around Neil's neck, and now that he thinks about it, he can’t see Andrew giving him anything other than what’s on the screen in front of him now. 

Another text lights up his phone. 

_kevin says i’m banned from talking to you because you’re not into bdsm._

Two seconds later, a call lights up Neil’s screen.

“Don’t check your texts,” Kevin shouts into the phone as soon as Neil answers it. “This is THE MOST fucked up thing -”

Kevin’s cut off by someone in the background talking, but Neil can’t make out what’s going on. 

“Kevin?” He asks hesitantly. 

“Shut up, Neil,” Kevin snaps. Someone laughs in the background. Maybe Thea. Neil can’t quite tell, and can only roll his eyes as Kevin shouts at someone on the other end, “HE’S NOT!"

“Sorry,” Kevin says, his attention back on the call. “You’re at home still, right?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“No reason,” Kevin says, but then Neil’s phone buzzes again with a text. 

_since you’re a little slow, i’ll make this simple for you. it’s andrew._

Neil pauses, hand hovering over the reply button as he stares at the text. 

_Who gave you my number?_ Neil types back quickly. 

“Are you texting him?” Kevin whines. “I said _don’t_ check your texts.”

“I’m not,” Neil lies. At the same time, he hears someone snort in the background of the call, and Neil’s screen lights up with a reply: _liar._

“I can’t believe this,” Kevin groans. 

Another text comes from Andrew before Neil can reply to the _liar_ one: _you never told me kevin was your Dom._ Neil tries to hide his smile, even though he’s home alone. Kevin would rather die than have to Dom someone. 

“He’s not,” Neil says aloud, before realizing he’s supposed to be talking to Kevin and texting Andrew. 

“Who’s not _what,_ Neil?” Kevin asks darkly. 

Andrew sends: _you really are slow. are you sure you’re actually in college?_

“Nothing,” Neil mutters to Kevin as he types out a reply to Andrew: _Stop distracting me._

“I told him to delete your number,” Kevin says. “He shouldn’t be texting you.”

“Why not?” Neil asks, biting his lip as he reads Andrew’s reply: **_i’m_ ** _distracting?_

“Because you’re not a painslut, Neil,” Kevin whines. “The stupid bet is off, okay? You win. Congrats. The two hundred bucks is yours.” 

“What?” Neil asks, genuinely confused for a moment. He doesn’t have a reply for Andrew’s text yet. 

“You’re fucking competitive, Josten, I get it. I don’t know how you got Andrew to agree, but you proved your point. I won’t make you come to Eden’s again.” 

“Agree to _what?"_ Neil repeats, ignoring the fact that Kevin never _made_ him come to Eden’s. Sure, he could use $200, but he doesn’t want to stop going to Eden’s. _He_ should be paying Kevin - not that he’s about to tell Kevin every kinky thing he’s fantasized about, but Neil kept coming back to Eden’s because he liked it. Even if he hasn’t participated yet, he wants to. Every weekend, he wonders if he’s going to finally choose the sub wristband, the participant wristband. 

“This whole plan with Andrew - getting me to fuck off. I mean, I never meant to pressure you into BDSM or something. If you didn't want to come, you could've just told me yourself. You didn't have to send Andrew. But I should've realized you weren't comfortable when you looked at Jean like you wanted to light him on fire when he asked if you wanted a participant band or not last week.” Kevin’s voice falls into a stage-whisper then, adding, “And I’m totally not saying this in front of them because they'll never let me live it down, but Thea and Andrew are right. I was wrong to bring you here. So … you win the bet.” 

Neil stares at his phone in shock for a moment, speechless until another text comes through: _you're welcome._

“Wait -” Neil says, but he’s cut off.

“Thea’s ready for me,” Kevin says. “I’ll see you when I get home. Happy Halloween, Neil.” 

The line goes dead, and Neil stares at his phone, waiting for a text that never comes. 

Kevin's wrong. Andrew's wrong. Thea's wrong.

Well, Thea's probably not wrong; Kevin probably crossed a line when he made the bet, but that's besides the point. They're all acting like Neil is some helpless child that was dragged against his will into a debauched sex club, which is absolutely not the case. What's worse is Andrew now seems to believe Neil never wanted to be at Eden's in the first place. 

He can’t exactly text Andrew _I want to be your sub._ He might be bratty and impatient and missing a brain-to-mouth filter most of the time, but he feels like that’s a little too forward. Especially for the type of sub that he’s seen Andrew with before. He could say _I’m into kinky shit,_ but that’s too vague and sounds a little too much like oversharing for his liking. _Fuck me?_ Too forward. _Don’t listen to Kevin?_ Accurate, but not exactly specific enough to show Andrew he's interested.

In the end, his stomach knots he he realizes too much of this conversation is occurring at Eden’s without him, and he’s tired of it. There’s really only one way to solve this, and it’s going to cost him $200 and whatever dignity he has left. But he knows exactly what he has to do. 

His Halloween outfit is hanging in his closet, waiting and ready. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this started as a Dom!Neil fic and after literally just a hundred words I was like fuck that I can't do it ... and ended up with this instead. 
> 
> As always, let me know any requests you have for this fic! I saw the ones from last week in the comments and and will definitely include those as the story progresses :)


	3. Neil Josten is an Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you for reading and commenting, all of the comments are making me smile so much!! Obviously Andriel content is definitely coming soon but I couldn’t help but stick a little bit of Light Angst in these first few chapters. Did I mention that brevity isn't my thing? Because this bitch is getting long already and we're not even to the good bit yet.

Neil isn’t a complete idiot. 

Even if Jean is looking at him like one.

“That’s not a costume, Neil,” Jean warns, taking in the sweatpants and baggy shirt he’s in. “Unless you’re going as a fashion disaster. Or ... a broke college student.”

As if Jean really expected Neil of all people to show up on Halloween, on _the last night of Mischief Week,_ without a costume. To be fair, Neil has never shown up to Eden’s in anything more than lingerie since Kevin usually drives him; his sweats are out of character. But since the fiasco earlier in the week, Neil’s been having visions of his bare ass getting stuck to the backseat of an Uber. Or maybe he’s been having flashbacks to his thighs sticking to the seats of Andrew’s Maserati while he had an internal meltdown.

( _D_ _oes sweat stain leather? Should I tell him my ass is sweating on his seats? Is that crossing a line? He could kick me out if I tell him. I can't tell him. I can't walk home like this. It'll be fine. Except - oh God, what if it's like that stupid Adam Sandler movie with the twins that Kevin made me watch and I leave a sweat stain the size of Antarctica on his seat?? I have to say something before his car is ruined -)_

Point is: tonight, Neil got an Uber here (fully clothed) and he’s trying to be _responsible,_ goddamnit. 

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” Neil grins, pulling down the back of his sweatpants to reveal a glimpse of his outfit. Jean looks pleasantly amused as a wolfish grin spreads across his face. 

“Colors tonight?” He asks, motioning towards the wristbands. Neil points to the black wristbands, for submissive, and then after a moment, to the green ones. 

Participant. 

Jean whistles softly and wraps the two bands around Neil’s left wrist, tugging on them once to make sure they’re tight enough to stay put. 

“I know quite a few people who have been waiting for this night,” Jean says cryptically as Neil heads inside.

He goes to the rows of lockers to store his sweats and personal belongings for later, stripping quickly and taking a moment to run his hands over the black fishnets on his thighs, the lace choker around his neck, the sheer bodysuit that dips low down to the small of his back. With one last check of his eyeliner and an extra swipe of glitter on his cheeks, he pops a headband with small black cat ears on his head to complete the look. As an afterthought, he takes the key from his locker and slides it onto the black lace choker on his neck. 

By the time Neil heads inside, Eden’s is packed. Whoever made up the whole fashionably-late-arrival was clearly onto something, because a few heads turn his way. He stands on the edge of the crowd and looks for familiar faces. An appreciative stranger comments on his outfit, and an energetic sub asks him if he wants to dance. As much as he’d like to get lost in the music and lights, he came here for a reason; he politely declines.

He’s not sure whose reaction to his surprise entrance is going to be worse: Andrew’s, or Kevin’s. He’s equally uncertain about which one of them he’d prefer to talk to first, but his decision is made for him when his eyes meet Kevin’s across the room. Neil gives him a shy wave, and Kevin shoots him a murderous look. The effect is dulled, though, because Thea has an arm wrapped around Kevin’s shoulders and she gives his jaw a sharp tap to direct his attention back towards her. By the time Neil pushes through the crowd and slides into the booth across from them, Kevin is red-faced and Thea is grinning smugly. 

“What the fuck,” Kevin growls.

“What’s up, babe?” Thea shouts to Neil over the music, giving him an exaggerated wink as she looks at his wristbands. That Kevin somehow hasn’t noticed yet.

“Why are you here?” Kevin asks before Neil can get a word in edgewise. “I told you, the bet’s off. You win, okay?”

“Kevin. I know this is difficult for you to grasp, but … I want to be here.” 

Kevin looks like he’s about to interrupt, but Thea traces her finger along his chin, a silent gesture to remind him of his manners, and Kevin’s gaze lowers to the table as he falls quiet.

“Let him talk, handsome,” Thea says quietly. Neil smiles a little; Thea only calls Kevin by that nickname when he’s feeling vulnerable. 

“This isn’t new to me,” Neil explains slowly. “I got into - into BDSM stuff a few years ago on my own. After everything that ... you know. It was mostly just online at first, trying to figure out what I liked. And - I mean, honest to God - did you think I just had a closet full of lingerie for no reason? Or did you think I bought all of this in, like, the past two months? Because this is two _years_ ’ worth of curated quality lingerie. I’ve just never had anywhere I could comfortably wear it in public before Eden’s.” 

Neil smooths his hands over the sleeves of his bodysuit that reach all the way to his wrists. This particular piece was one of his favorites - the thin fabric mostly covers his scars but still manages to be sensual and revealing, given how tight it is. It makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel like he's not broken, or damaged, or defective. 

“So you like wearing lace thongs and collars.” Kevin throws his hands in the air. “That doesn’t mean you want someone to hurt you. After what happened with -”

“It’s not just that,” Neil cuts in, his voice almost too-calm as he adjusts his headband and the tiny black ears that peek through his curls. He doesn’t want to talk about what gets him off, or how his past has shaped him, changed him. He doesn’t want to think if he’d be someone else today, because he would be. Undoubtedly.

“Look, just … trust me. It was stupid to make this into a bet. I should’ve known better.” 

“You don’t say,” Thea snorts into her drink. 

“I didn't tell you earlier because this was _your_ thing, Kevin. And you've already dealt with enough shit from me. I didn’t want to take Eden’s away from you, too. And anyway, I thought it would just make things weird between us if you knew.”

Kevin glares at him, clearly conveying his message: _well, look what fucking happened. You made it weird._

“I know I should’ve told you sooner - as soon as you suggested the bet - but I was really excited to just see what it was like,” Neil says quietly. He isn’t sure Kevin can hear him over the music, but he continues because the words need to be said. “At first I thought I’d be happy just to come here for a couple of months, you know? Get drunk every once in a while, watch everyone else have a good time, and that would be that. But the more I saw ... the more I talked with Roland and Jean and Jeremy ... I knew that I didn’t want to stop. I wanted more. And Andrew -”

"Andrew _what?_ " Kevin asks.

"I want _more_ ," Neil practically whines, trying to get his point across without having to explicitly state _I'd like Andrew to fuck me._

“ _More_ doesn’t mean Andrew-fucking-Minyard!” Kevin protests. "I can accept that you wear pretty shit. I can accept that you want to keep coming to Eden’s. I can accept that you want to participate -” Kevin finally glances at the green wristband on Neil’s wrist, “- but you don’t know what Andrew is like. He’d destroy you.”

Thea runs her hand across Kevin’s shoulders before resting it on the back of his neck, pressing firmly against his skin. Neil recognizes the panicked look in Kevin’s eyes, the way his hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the table. 

“Kev,” she says under her breath. “Neil’s old enough to make his own decisions.” 

“No one said he wasn’t,” Kevin snaps. But when Thea looks at her sub like that, it’s as if Neil isn’t even at their table anymore.

Kevin sighs. “I’m just worried.” 

“Tell _him_ that,” Thea nudges Kevin’s shoulder gently, glancing towards Neil, but her hand still stays wrapped around the back of his neck. Grounding. Steady. Predictable. Safe.

“Neil…” Kevin’s voice trails off.

The unspoken conversation sits raw and unfurled between them: all the hurt and pain and guilt and regret. All of the lies Neil has told Kevin. All of the times Kevin has pushed Neil too far, matched his temper beat-for-beat. All of the times they’ve tried and failed to be better friends to each other. All of the ways they’ve saved each other. All of the ways they’ve helped each other, and listened to each other, and fought for each other, and shown up when it would've been easier to walk away. All of the ways they’ve proven, day after day after day, that happiness isn't something meant for everyone else; it's meant for them, too. Beneath every fight and mistake and well-intentioned hurt, they understand each other in ways that can’t be explained in words. 

Which is why Neil knows exactly what Kevin’s trying to say when he tells Neil to stay away from Andrew - not that Neil’s going to do what Kevin wants. 

Hell no. 

They might be best friends, but Kevin can’t stop Neil from making stupid decisions. (If he could, Neil’s Freshman Year Calculus Disaster would’ve never happened. And also the small dorm fire afterwords.)

But because he is Neil’s best friend, Kevin knows there’s no stopping him. He doesn’t expect Neil to do what he’s told. He just wants Neil to listen to him, to hear his reservations and keep them in mind when he’s alone and getting into strange cars with strange men in the middle of the night. That’s all Kevin ever wants: someone to _listen._ Sometimes, Neil thinks Kevin’s anxiety is like a trapped bird that crashes around inside of his mind until someone finally opens the cage door and lets it out, leaving him relieved and deflated and exhausted. 

“I know,” Neil says. “I should’ve told you any of this sooner.”

Thea’s hand is still wrapped around Kevin’s neck, and he’s slowly relaxing into her touch.

“S’okay,” Kevin mumbles, his voice all smooth honey and sugar as he leans his forehead against Thea’s shoulder. 

“So you’re kind of a complete newbie,” Thea says a little too brightly after a prolonged silence. 

“Not entirely?” Neil frowns. “I mean, I’ve never been part of an actual scene before. But I think I know what I like.” 

“If you want, I could suggest several Doms who’d be more than willing to scene with you when you’re ready. Doms who are great with new subs.” The unspoken suggestion is _Doms that aren't Andrew._

“That’s very generous,” Neil says carefully, not wanting to offend her or Kevin. “But I think I’d like to spend a little time relaxing first.” He motions towards the dance floor, the flashing lights, the bar. Thea grins at him.

“If you need anything…” 

“I’ll definitely let you know.”

He’s known Thea for almost as long as he’s known Kevin; they’re kind of a package deal. But that doesn’t mean Thea isn’t his friend too by this point. They genuinely enjoy spending time together, especially when most of that time is spent finding every conceivable way to annoy Kevin. 

Thea returns Neil’s smile easily and nudges Kevin up. 

“Dance with Neil,” she tells him, slipping easily into Domme mode. “If he finds a Dom he wants to scene with and asks you to leave, you will come back to me and will _not_ interfere. Do you understand?” 

Kevin nods, and Thea tips his chin up with a single finger. “Use your words, handsome.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. 

And then she slaps him on the ass as he gets up to follow Neil into the heart of the crowd. 

Neil is almost certain that Thea knows what he has planned. He didn’t come to Eden’s tonight to play with just any Dom. Even though he's not entirely sure how the night is going to end, he had two objectives: clear the air with Kevin, and ... part two is more nebulous. It was easier to imagine declaring his intentions to Andrew when he was at home, but in the bright lights of the club, his confidence is quickly waning. Plus, Andrew is nowhere to be seen. 

On the other hand, he’s spent the last two months perfecting his outfits, learning how to move his body in ways that draw the eye and hold attention. And he’s upped his game tonight, even though Kevin rolls his eyes when he finally spots the black bunny tail on the back of Neil’s bodysuit. 

“What are you even supposed to be - a cat or a rabbit?” Kevin whines as he spins Neil around and rests his hands on his hips. “This isn’t even a real costume.”

“Does it matter? I’m sexy,” Neil shouts over the music. “Jean let me in. He gets to decide what’s a real costume.”

“Jean’s got bad taste then,” Kevin shouts back. 

Someone presses a hand into the small of Neil’s back and he jumps a little before turning to find Jeremy behind him, wearing nothing but a thin white top and shorts, rabbit ears, and a pink silk ribbon tied in a bow around his neck. 

“Who’s trashing my Dom?” Jeremy asks with a grin, grinding his hips against Neil’s ass. 

“Kevin said Jean has bad taste for letting me in like this,” Neil shouts back, laughing as Jeremy reaches over Neil's shoulder to pat Kevin’s cheek condescendingly.

“You’re the one with terrible taste, sweetie,” Jeremy says to Kevin in a saccharine voice as he spins Neil around to face him. “Don’t let him bully you, darling. You look delicious.” 

Neil loops his arms around Jeremy’s neck and can’t help but realize they’re dressed in complementary outfits. Jeremy is in a white satin, rosy cheeked with pink glitter and matching glittery lip gloss, a perfect foil to Neil’s all-black ensemble. It isn’t until someone wolf whistles at them and slides behind Jeremy to dance that Neil realizes Jeremy is being much more flirtatious than usual. 

“Sir,” Jeremy says to the man, batting his eyelashes, “Is that your hand on my ass?” 

“I hear you’re free to play tonight,” the man says. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jeremy says, “But I can’t leave my friend here alone.” Jeremy pulls Neil closer until Neil’s cheek is smushed against Jeremy’s chest.

“He’s not _alone_ ,” Kevin pouts, but his commentary goes unnoticed.

“Two pretty subs like yourselves? I’m sure I could think of something for both of you,” the man says. 

Jeremy keeps his hands on Neil’s waist as he laughs, dragging their bodies closer together. The man’s eyes look hungry, and Neil is acutely aware of every place his own body touches Jeremy’s when he’s being watched. 

“What do you think, Neil?” Jeremy asks, his fingers dragging across Neil’s wristbands quite intentionally. “Wanna play?” 

By now, there’s a small bubble of space around them on the dance floor, and the neon lights flash across Jeremy’s face as Neil stares up at him. He grins a little bit, wiggling his ass (and tail) as he considers Jeremy’s offer. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” Neil says politely to the man. “I think we’ll keep dancing.”

“Later, maybe?” The man asks. 

“Dunno,” Neil says with shrug. “We’ll have to see.” 

The man trails his finger across Jeremy’s back as he leaves, promising to make it worth their while if they find him after they’re done. Once he’s out of earshot, Neil stands on his tiptoes to whisper in Jeremy’s ear, wide-eyed with adrenaline and a little giggly from the attention.

“Jean lets you play with the other Doms?” 

Jeremy nods. “On special occasions, if I've earned it. You know how it goes.” 

Neil doesn't know, but he nods anyway.

“Any particular reason why tonight is special?” Neil asks, tilting his head back to look up at Jeremy. 

“It’s Halloween. He loves me. He wants me to have fun. He feels bad that he has to work and can’t Dom me properly himself tonight,” Jeremy says, counting off the reasons on his fingers. After a pause, he leans down and whispers conspiratorially, “And he likes making trouble.” 

Neil’s about to ask what trouble Jeremy’s talking about when a sub comes up to them.

“My Dom sent me with an offer for you to join him upstairs,” the man says to Neil. He’s wearing a sexy nurse costume. The hat sits crookedly on his head, marked with a little red cross on the front. 

Jeremy doesn’t acknowledge him, which Neil supposes isn’t too strange, considering the sub is addressing Neil. 

“Who’s your Dom?” Neil asks as Jeremy keeps his hands on Neil’s hips, swaying in time to the music. 

“Andrew Minyard.”

Neil's throat closes up. He didn't think it would be so easy to earn an audience with a Dom like Andrew, and now that the opportunity to explain his situation has presented itself, he freezes. Jeremy must sense his hesitation.

“Risky decision,” he mumbles in Neil’s ear, like a tiny angel on his shoulder. “You think you're up for VIP on your first night playing?”

Neil bites his lip, considering the offer. He wanted a chance to talk to Andrew, but now that he’s faced with the reality of it, he doesn’t know what to say. Planning has never been his strong suit, and it’s biting him in the ass now. 

“Can I think about it?” He blurts out. 

Andrew’s sub looks unimpressed but agrees to deliver the message and promptly disappears back the way he came. Neil’s heart is racing and he can’t _think_ with all of the sound and motion of the club, dizzying and disorienting. When he slips through the crowd, towards the bar to clear his head and come up with a plan, Jeremy and Kevin follow without being asked.

“Sit with me,” Jeremy pouts once he’s settled on a bar stool, making grabby hands for him to climb into his lap. Neil complies, balancing on Jeremy’s thigh.

“You’re back,” Roland says when he sees Neil. “Kevin said you weren’t coming agai-”

“Shut up,” Kevin mutters.

“Well isn’t _this_ fun,” Roland says, grinning as he lifts Neil’s wrist to get a better look at his wristbands. “You looking to play later?” 

“Maybe,” Neil says coyly. He tries to tell himself it’s for the best when he gives Roland a reassuring smile, but he won’t be taking him up on the offer.

He’s got Andrew to think about.

Jeremy pats his thigh in response, mumbling _good boy_ in Neil’s ear. 

“He doesn’t need your praise,” Kevin groans. “He’s got a big enough ego as it is.” 

“Are you kink-shaming us, Kevin?” Jeremy asks in mock disbelief. “I might have to tell Jean and get you kicked out for the evening.” 

“You’re not even into praise kink,” Kevin says.

“But Neil could be, right? And didn’t you say he hasn’t explored his kinks with a partner yet?”

“Jesus,” Neil says. “How much did you guys talk about before I got here?”

“Quite a bit,” Jeremy says breezily, wrapping one of Neil’s curls around his finger slowly. “All good things though, babe.” 

“Right,” Neil says, shooting Kevin a dirty look. 

They sit at the bar for a little while, taking a break. Jeremy turns down an offer to scene with a Domme and her sub that he’s seen around a few times, and then turns down an offer from a Dom Neil’s never seen before who has tattoos across his knuckles that spell out _BADD BITCH._ After that, Jeremy excuses himself to the bathroom.

“You know what he’s doing, right?” Kevin asks as soon as Jeremy's out of earshot. “He’s showing you off. Pretty much everyone knows Jeremy gets special permission from Jean to play on holidays. He’s probably one of the most sought after subs here - for good reason - and Jean doesn’t share often. And I swear to God, with that outfit he’s wearing? Did you two coordinate or something?”

Neil frowns and shakes his head. 

“Jeremy is fucking _insidious.”_

“I’m sorry, are we talking about the same Jeremy? The one that made Jean kiss his finger when he got a papercut from his napkin last week? _That_ Jeremy?” 

_“In-sid-i-ous,”_ Kevin drawls, punctuating each syllable with a fingernail tapping on his glass. 

Jeremy returns before Neil can say anything else, which is probably for the best. Neil lets himself get dragged back onto the dance floor while he tries to come up with a plan. He could tell Andrew that he wants to be his sub. He doesn’t _think_ it’s too forward, but he’s never had a Dom before. He doesn’t know who is supposed to initiate that kind of thing, and maybe Andrew wouldn’t appreciate his forwardness.

After a few songs, Kevin is hot and whiny and complaining nonstop about the sweat, the loud music, the lack of personal space, and Neil sends him back to Thea. She’s got a lot more patience for Kevin’s moods than Neil does, probably because she has ways to make Kevin relax that Neil cannot employ. 

Not long after that, Neil starts to get tired, too. Somewhere along the way, a pretty sub with long brown hair gave Neil a ring pop, which he’s sucking on idly. A fan of Jeremy and Jean’s scenes gave Jeremy a candy necklace that Jeremy is chewing on as he sways to the music. The tempo is slower now, and Neil rests his head against Jeremy’s chest as he licks his ring pop again, closing his eyes and getting lost in the music, when a soft tap on his shoulder startles him.

“Sorry,” Andrew’s sub-dressed-as-a-nurse says. “But my Dom is leaving soon. He says his offer only stands for the next ten minutes, and he doesn’t want to play. Just talk.” 

_“Wads?”_ Neil slurs around the ring pop still in his mouth. 

“He wants to speak to you,” the sub says. “He said you can bring your friend if it makes you feel better.” 

Neil glances towards the staircase that leads to the VIP section upstairs, and immediately knows he doesn’t want Jeremy to come. If Andrew still thinks Neil is some kind of sheltered vanilla college student, Neil doesn’t want an audience when he whips out all of his filthy fantasies to disprove Andrew of his misconceptions.

Neil sucks on his ring pop to buy himself time to think. He’s walking the thin edge between sugar-high and exhausted, and his decisions are suffering for it when he squeaks out, “Just talk?”

The sub nods in response.

“Alright ... Alright,” Neil repeats.

Jeremy turns to follow, but Neil shakes his head and waves him off in an _I’ll-be-fine_ gesture. Jeremy gives him a little smile and a thumbs up as he slips through the crowd towards one of the booths at the back, where the Domme and sub that approached him earlier are sitting.

The VIP section is even more poorly lit than the rest of the club, although that might be part of the Halloween decor. Neil wouldn’t know; he’s never been up here before, so maybe it’s normal to be unable to see past the end of his own nose. As they pass one of the private rooms, a plastic skeleton hanging in a sex swing catches his eye, and in the next room there’s a ghost hanging from the steel hook mounted to the ceiling. 

They stop in front of a closed door. 

“You’re welcome to go in whenever you’re ready,” the sub says, kneeling on a cushion next to the door. 

Neil nods, his ring pop still in his mouth as he lets himself into the room. 

The first thing he notices are the walls, painted a shade of midnight blue that makes Neil feel like he’s walked right into the night sky. The next thing he notices is Andrew, seated on a couch in the center of the room with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and his cell phone in the other.

“Neil,” Andrew says coolly, making no move to get up or invite Neil to sit. He doesn’t even look up from scrolling through his phone, and Neil’s heart sinks. 

He shifts on his feet a little awkwardly, not quite sure what the protocol here is, until Andrew motions to the couch beside him. It’s the same shade of blue as the walls, and Neil drops down onto it gracelessly. He keeps one hand in his lap but continues to lick his ring pop slowly on his other hand, watching Andrew the entire time. He might even bat his eyelashes.

There’s a hungry look on Andrew’s face when he finally sets his phone down, but he makes no move towards Neil. It’s only a little frustrating. 

Okay, maybe a _lot_ frustrating. Neil’s pulling out all the stops to no avail - it’s like trying to sex up a brick wall. And Neil’s spent the past few days imagining all of the things Andrew could do to him. It’s just not _fair_ for him to look like this - sexy, blonde, and furious. That’s basically Neil’s kryptonite. Not to mention Andrew is in head-to-toe black and it matches Neil’s outfit perfectly, especially considering Andrew’s shirt is made of black fishnet instead of his usual black cotton. It shows what Neil considers to be an obscene amount of skin (because any amount of Andrew’s skin seems obscene, given that he so rarely shows any). Neil wants to trace his fingers over the holes in the fishnet and feel the steady rise and fall of Andrew’s chest beneath his fingers. He wants to fit his tongue between the threads on his chest and wring delicious sounds out of Andrew’s mouth, but - 

“You’re not in costume,” Neil says, his filter lost in the face of his (maybe, hopefully) future Dom. At least it’s better than announcing his not-so-innocent intentions out loud. 

“I don’t need to be in costume,” Andrew says simply without further explanation. “You, on the other hand …”

Andrew takes his time looking over Neil’s choice in clothing for the evening, slowly swishing the liquor in his glass. 

“You took my advice from last time,” he observes, nodding towards the locker key hanging on Neil’s choker. Neil nods, popping his ring pop out of his mouth loudly as he does so. 

“I wore sweats over my outfit to get here,” he says proudly. “Kept ‘em downstairs.”

“What a _talented_ boy,” Andrew says quietly, but his tone is derisive and it’s clearly not meant as a compliment. Neil flushes, staring at his ring pop as Andrew continues. “Kevin seems to think you aren’t interested in this.” 

_This._ The word reverberates through Neil’s thick skull and he can’t help but latch onto the promise of _this._ _This_ is something he can work with. _This_ is something he wants.

“Kevin’s wrong,” Neil says. “Often. He misunderstood a bet.”

“Really,” Andrew says, and it’s more a statement than a question as he sets his glass on the side table. When he stands, looking down at Neil from his full height - which, albeit, isn’t very much - Neil’s mouth goes dry. The things he could do to Andrew from this position, if only Andrew moved a few inches closer, if only Andrew unzipped his pants and commanded Neil to make him feel good.

But Neil’s fantasies are cut off when Andrew asks, “What was the bet?” 

“That I would have a good time at Eden’s. He thought I’d make some friends. Learn to relax or something.”

“And did you? Have a good time?” Andrew asks, continuing to look down at Neil through half-lidded eyes that send shivers down Neil’s spine.

“Yes, Sir,” Neil says, unable to stop himself from addressing Andrew properly. 

Andrew _tsks_ quietly. “I already told you once: I’m not your Dom. Don’t call me Sir.”

Neil’s hand goes up instinctively to the lace choker around his neck, betraying his vulnerabilities. He’s an unowned sub, and the ache in his chest - to be controlled, to be owned, to be used and fucked and cared for - makes him as ashamed as it does hopeful. 

“Okay,” Neil agrees softly, staring at his hands in his lap. He brings the ring pop to his mouth and sucks on it instead of letting even more of his insecurities spill out. 

“Why does Kevin act like he owns you?”

“He’s my roommate. He was just trying to look out for me.” 

“Maybe he’s right. You’ve made several terrible decisions in the short time I’ve known you. Like coming up here alone.” Andrew pauses. “You should be more careful around Doms you don’t know.”

“I _am_ careful,” Neil whines. 

Andrew levies a bored look at him, as if enumerating all of Neil’s questionable decisions isn’t worth his time. Neil has to bite back the reflex to defend himself. 

No, to defend _Andrew._ Because Neil isn’t so stupid that he’d lock himself in a private room with a stranger that he thought was dangerous. Maybe Neil is reckless and maybe he acts first and asks questions later, and maybe he only knows Andrew superficially, but nothing about Andrew screams _dangerous._ Not even whispers it, actually. And Neil would say he’s not afraid, but he can’t because it’s a lie.

He’s absolutely terrified that Andrew is about to destroy him without lifting a finger. 

“Kevin said you’ve never had a Dom before.”

In theory, those are the magic words Neil has been waiting for. _You’ve never had a Dom before._ But the way Andrew says them makes Neil want to walk out of the room and never come back, as though he’s failed by virtue of being inexperienced. As if he’s inexperienced by virtue of being undesirable. And maybe he _is_ undesirable, and Andrew has been trying to let him down gently this entire time. Maybe that’s why Andrew hasn’t even touched Neil, hasn’t asked him about his wristbands tonight. Maybe that’s why Andrew keeps telling Neil he’s not his Dom. 

When Neil shakes his head, he does so reluctantly, hating that he can see this conversation derailing. His only hope is kindled by the equally miserable look on Andrew’s face. Then again, Andrew only seems capable of making facial expressions in different shades of discomfort: anger, frustration, boredom, disgust. Loneliness, Neil dares to think. Or constipation. That’s more feasible, actually, he decides.

“I didn’t know,” Andrew says, as though he’s apologizing for something. When Neil opens his mouth to interject, Andrew holds up a hand to stop him. “You’re too inexperienced. I knew you didn’t participate, but I thought -” he pauses, redirecting his thoughts. “It was a lapse in judgement. I’m not interested.”

It’s only three words, but they weigh a crushing ton as they hit Neil right in the gut. _I’m not interested._

_I’m not interested._

_I’m not interested._

He’s dumbstruck. It’s a flat-out rejection, made worse by the fact that Neil hasn’t even asked Andrew to be his Dom and he’s already getting shot down.

“Beg pardon?” Neil says. It’s an old phrase his mother used to say when she was shocked; it slips out before he can stop it. _Fucking Britishisms._

“We have nothing else to discuss,” Andrew says, his voice already back to the bored cadence Neil is used to, as if their conversation has had zero emotional impact on him. 

Neil’s face is hot, but he can’t just tuck his shame away quietly and leave, apparently. Might as well add insult to injury, right?

" _You_ were the one to ask _me_ to come up here to talk,” Neil snarls. He dares to look up at Andrew through his lashes, trying his hardest to look menacing even as tears prick the backs of his eyes. “And all you have to say is a giant _fuck you?_ ” Neil laughs bitterly. “Or, actually, no. Not _fuck you,_ because at least that would mean that you’re interested. But I’m not _interesting,_ right? I’m _inexperienced.”_

He couldn’t have possibly read this situation any worse. Andrew stood up for Neil with the older Dom. He drove him home. He hand-delivered Neil his lost phone. He even texted Neil tonight - God, none of it was flirting. Andrew's probably been trying to tell Neil to politely fuck off and Neil’s been looking at everything through rose-colored glasses, convinced that every breath Andrew takes is some kind of declaration of love. 

Dan has always said that Neil has the social awareness of a distracted toddler, but surely even this is an all-time-low for him. 

And now that Andrew’s said the magic words - _I’m not interested -_ Neil sees it. The reluctance. The disgusted curl of Andrew’s lip last week when Neil sat in his Maserati. The way he tensed when Neil stumbled drunkenly and almost brushed against Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew wasn’t interested. He was just being a half-decent human being and Neil took advantage of the situation. 

God, even when Andrew said _I’m not your Dom_ at the bar, Neil threw it aside, didn’t he? He was drunk, yeah, but somewhere in the back of his mind he convinced himself that Andrew didn’t mean it, and that makes him a terrible person, doesn't it? The last time Neil felt so disgusted with himself was Freshman year.

When he last saw his father, actually.

“Stop taking this so personally,” Andrew says, his voice cutting through Neil’s spiraling thoughts. “I crossed a line I shouldn’t have. And I don’t play games, Neil. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

How ironic, considering it feels like Neil’s heart just cracked in two. Ridiculous, because he barely knows the guy. Maybe it’s the shock of his first real rejection and - 

Andrew’s right, he realizes. Sure, Neil’s twenty-one. He’s had sex before, and gotten drunk, and been shot at, and his father might’ve tried to kill him a few times, and he’s been kidnapped once or twice, and brokered a deal with the FBI for his new identity, but what is he if not _inexperienced?_ He’s not innocent - never innocent, there’s too much blood on his hands for that - but he’s only had sex with the lights off because he hates anyone to see his scars. It’s why he likes the bodysuit he wore tonight. It’s why he’s only slept with people who were transient in his life, never a face or a name he’d risk running into twice. Any other kind of intimacy has always felt like it could destroy him. 

But this, right here, is worse than stripping himself bare. Without saying a thing, Andrew’s figured him out. Seen through Neil’s insecurities and inadequacies, and turned them into razor-sharp barbs that sting without mercy. Of course Neil has nothing to offer Andrew as an inexperienced sub, too prone to attachment. Too much of a liability. _Of course._

He hadn’t thought rejection would hurt so much, especially from someone as cold as Andrew. If he was smart, he would’ve realized Andrew was unattainable from the start.

“You’re an asshole,” Neil manages to say with as much vitriol as he can spare. Which isn’t much, considering that he wants to melt through the floor and never see Andrew again. 

Andrew only stares at him, as if this is nothing new, as if his arched eyebrow is saying, _and?_

“If you’re not interested, _fine,”_ Neil continues. “But you don’t have to be such a dick about it, okay? _Normal people_ just send a text. _Normal people_ don’t invite someone to a private room just to tell them they’re worthless. _Normal people_ don’t get someone’s hopes up just to dash them at the first possible opportunity. _Normal people_ don’t -”

Neil’s on the verge of hyperventilating when Andrew touches him. Just one finger on his chin to lift his face so Andrew can look him in the eye. It’s feather-light, barely there, and almost too much, too intense. Neil tries to ignore the tears on his face, and when had he started crying? He’s a goddamned mess, but Andrew is looking at him right now like he’s not. Which only makes the tears come harder.

“You’re not worthless,” Andrew says in an impossibly soft voice. Neil sniffles once, but Andrew isn’t content with letting Neil bask in the glow of a compliment (if it even _is_ a compliment?), because he adds, “It’s for your own good.” 

It’s whiplash. There’s no other way to describe it. One second, Neil is convinced he’s misread the situation and trampled all over Andrew’s boundaries, and the next? He’s convinced Andrew must want this just as much as he does. 

“Don’t tell me it’s for my own good,” Neil snaps, jerking away from Andrew’s touch as if he’s been burned. “I don’t need - as if I need _protection_ from you. Because I _don’t._ I’m a fucking adult, okay? I don’t need the bullshit ‘it’s for my own good’ excuse. If you don’t want to scene with me, there’s this thing called _responsibility,_ ever hear of it?”

Andrew doesn’t say anything. His hand hovers at his side indecisively, as if he wants to reach out and calm Neil again but can’t bring himself to commit to the gesture. 

“You know what? I thought you were a good person. Yeah, you’re quiet, but you’re confident and respectful. Definitely intuitive, because you knew when the guy was making me uncomfortable. And you didn’t pressure me into anything. And I thought as a new sub, you’d be a good Dom. I though -” Neil closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I thought you wanted this.” 

Neil shouldn’t feel so devastated by saying it aloud. He already knows all of the reasons why he wants Andrew to be his Dom. The pain in his chest could be from realizing Andrew doesn’t want him, or it could be from realizing he was wrong about Andrew, that he wasn’t the Dom Neil thought he was. For a moment, Neil pretends that Andrew isn’t about to tell him to leave. He pretends that Andrew isn’t about to devastate him. Wreck him.

Neil shuts his eyes and imagines a universe where Andrew reaches his hand back out and brushes the tears from Neil’s cheek. Where Andrew gathers Neil into his lap and shushes him until his sobs become whimpers, become shuddering inhales, become soft, exhausted sighs. Where Andrew tells him it’s okay. Where they aren’t two strangers, unable to say what they really mean. 

But that’s impossible, because Neil doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. Thankfully, Andrew knows exactly what he needs.

“Fun’s over,” Andrew growls. His biting tone is at odds with the gentle brush of his fingers as he reaches out and touches Neil's cheek for the second time. Neil doesn't dare to hope for Andrew to humor him, and he’s not mistaken. It’s not an intimate touch. He just turns Neil’s face until he’s staring straight at the door.

“Time to go," Andrew says. 

For a moment, the entire world narrows down to the electricity sparking in the wake of Andrew's touch as he pulls back. 

_Get it together, Josten,_ Neil tells himself as he takes a steadying breath. 

“I think you’re making a mistake,” he says. He doesn't want to imply that Andrew owes him something, and he doesn't want to force Andrew into something that he doesn't want. But if there's a chance that Andrew could someday see Neil as more than an inexperienced sub, if Neil could earn the right to call Andrew his Dom, if Andrew could learn to trust himself around Neil, then Neil wants that door to stay open. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Andrew says, and his tone makes it clear that he has nothing more to discuss. 

“Okay,” Neil says when Andrew gets up and opens the door, motioning for him to leave. “I understand."

And the funny thing is that he feels like he _does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (before anyone asks yes the Adam Sandler movie Neil mentioned is Jack and Jill and I will go to my grave with the image of that sweat-stained fucking bed burned into my brain. if you haven't seen it consider yourself lucky. or not. i don't know how to feel about it exactly, it's been years since i saw it and i still have flashbacks so it's. it's something, i guess.) 
> 
> Two notes for updating:
> 
> 1) I'm trying to get a chapter posted each week! 
> 
> and
> 
> 2) If y'all are keeping track, everything has been in Neil's perspective so far. BUT since it's a holiday this weekend, I get a day off. So I figured I could post a little something different, and what better to post than a short section from Andrew's POV? I don't usually have dates planned for updates but I'll try and get it up on 4th or 5th of July at the latest so keep your eyes out for that!!


	4. Neil Josten Is a Filthy Fucking Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANDREW CHAPTER ANDREW CHAPTER ANDREW CHAPTER
> 
> thank you guys for all the comments, I've read every single one of them and honestly I didn't know how a change in POV would go over but I'm psyched that y'all are excited for Andrew!!!

_Liar._ It’s what Andrew’s been calling Neil for a week now, ever since he opened his liar-fucking-mouth at Eden’s. He says as much when Jean tries to bring up the topic.

But Jean, ever the optimist, says, “That’s not fair. I mean, you don’t agree with him, but that doesn’t make him a liar.”

“Yeah, well.” Andrew takes a bite of pizza. “Life isn’t fair. Doesn’t make him any less of a fucking liar. Or an idiot.”

It’s Sunday night, they’re at Gino’s, and Jeremy is trying to eat his weight in carbs - a perfectly normal end to a perfectly normal week. Andrew should be _relaxed_ , dammit. But he’s not, because Jean is stubborn and Jeremy is nosy and Neil’s words are still ricocheting around inside Andrew’s head. 

“You don’t even know him,” Jeremy says unhelpfully, and Andrew hopes he chokes on his pizza. Just a bit. 

Andrew disagrees fundamentally with that assessment. Neil’s been hanging around Eden’s for two months, after all, and every Saturday, Andrew sits in a booth in the darkest part of the club and listens to Doms and subs fawn over Neil like a piece of meat while Neil sits at the bar, completely oblivious to the things being said about him. _Look at his ass. Those curls. That mouth._ Andrew’s heard so many filthy fucking things said about the boy that he is _this_ close to putting a fork through the eye of the next Dom who says _I’d fuck that._

Except that means putting a fork through his own eye because he’s just as bad as they are, isn’t he? Bee called it _empathetic_ when Andrew stepped between the strange Dom and a clearly drunk and uncomfortable Neil. But it was really just pathetic. 

Exhibit A: the only reason Andrew had seen the Dom come up behind Neil was because he’d been imagining all the ways he could take Neil apart (he was up to half a dozen ways: spank him, collar him, fuck and plug him, suck him off, gag him, fist him). His reaction wasn’t a decision; it was an instinct. The way his nails bit into his palms, the way his entire body tensed when Neil tried to shrink away from the hands on his body, tucking his face as far as possible from the Dom pressing him into the bar. For a split second, Andrew wasn't seeing Neil across the bar; he was watching himself, ten years ago. Unable to say no, unable to say stop. 

And when Andrew looked at the Dom forcing himself on Neil, he only saw a reflection of his own desire for Neil in the man’s eyes, the potential for hurt lurking there. No matter what Bee said, the only real difference between Andrew and the older Dom was that Andrew knew how to better hide his darker side. 

Exhibit B: what Andrew hadn’t told Bee was how a very loud, very insistent, very _annoying_ voice in his head had growled out _mine_ when the man’s hands reached towards Neil’s face. By the time Andrew had finally gotten within arm’s reach, only to find the Dom pressed flush against Neil, that stupid voice in Andrew’s head was a mess of _stop_ and _don’t_ and _mine_ and _no._

When Andrew opened his mouth and told the Dom _Neil doesn’t belong to anyone,_ that was as much for Andrew’s own benefit as it was for the Dom whose hands were going places they didn’t belong. Because that was the truth. To Neil, Andrew was just a stranger in a bar. Not even a friend, and certainly not his Dom. If Andrew had done the right thing by stepping in, as Bee seemed to believe, he had done it for all of the wrong reasons. 

Exhibit C: Andrew had been _this close_ to snapping when he saw the man with Neil. He was on the verge of doing something stupid, something violent. In that moment, if the Dom hadn't walked away, Andrew would have lashed out in defense of a sub he barely knew. Just like Andrew was a stranger to Andrew, Neil was a stranger to Andrew.

It was the first time in a while that Andrew had seen red like that. 

Since Nicky, maybe.

Definitely since Aaron.

Previously, that kind of rage had been reserved for the defense of his family. He'd always believed that he had at least a semblance of control over his anger, but that night had changed his perception of himself for the worse. He was no more in control of his temper now than he'd been five years ago; the distance between himself and the past did nothing to temper the violence that was quick to surface upon his command.

 _Neil is dangerous,_ he told Bee, but what he meant was that his reactions to Neil were dangerous. 

_He could break me if he wanted to, and he doesn’t even know me,_ Andrew told her. He had to stop himself from adding 'yet' to the end of that sentence, because he could only admit to so much weakness in one session. 

Bee asked if that scared him. Being known. 

Of course it fucking scares him. His life is a house of cards, forever one breath away from falling apart, and Neil is a fucking tornado coming through. The potential for destruction had already begun to manifest that night - what he wouldn’t do to keep Neil safe. 

And that, right there, is pathetic-fucking-Exhibit D. He’d give up his own chance at happiness with Neil just to keep the Neil safe. Because the further away Neil stays from Andrew, the safer Neil will be. That is a fact.

But Andrew's not about to admit any of that to Jeremy and Jean just to prove a point. His self-preservation instincts are sharper than that, so he settles on a non-answer in response to Jeremy's statement. 

“I don’t have to know Neil to know he’s a liar,” Andrew tells them, which is the truth - a partial truth, but that describes most of what comes out of Andrew’s mouth nowadays.

“But you do,” Jean says. “Know him.”

Ever-observant Jean. Always watching, always smug, always thinking he knows best. He usually does know best - of course Jean would notice Andrew's divided attention at Eden's recently. Of course he would suss out the root cause of Andrew's distraction. 

Andrew can't admit that Jean is wrong, but he's not right, either. Andrew knows only the most superficial details of Neil's life. He knows that Neil doesn't usually drink to get drunk, and that his favorite color is probably baby blue because he wears that more than anything else even though it washes him out. He knows that Neil drags his fingers through his hair whenever he’s nervous, and that he’s twitchy whenever there are older guys around. Andrew knows that Neil gets a stupidly attractive blush across his nose when he’s drunk - actually drunk, on the rare occasion it happens - and that the straws in his drinks look like chew toys after he’s done with them. Andrew knows that Neil is distractible and snarky and impatient. He also knows that he’s so fucking gone for Neil and they’ve barely spoken ten words to each other. 

“He so totally does know him,” Jeremy says, side-eyeing Andrew. 

“If you’re asking my opinion, I think Neil likes you too,” Jean adds. “You know. If it makes a difference.”

“I never said I liked him,” Andrew sneers, stuffing too much pizza into his mouth in hopes that he’ll be the one to choke and end this pointless discussion once and for all. 

“Okay, sure,” Jeremy says. “But, counterpoint: we have eyes, and the only time I’ve ever seen you this angry was when I accidentally dented the Maserati’s door last year. And you _love_ your Mas. Ergo, you lo-”

Jean kicks Jeremy under the table, making a frantic hand gesture to shut Jeremy up that makes Andrew want to shout _I’m not blind, you idiots_. 

“What Jer means is that you haven’t been this interested in a sub for a while,” Jean says, glancing at Jeremy to keep him quiet. “For a long time, actually.”

Pizza really is fascinating, Andrew decides, as he tries to drown out Jean’s voice by focusing on literally anything else. Gino’s is quiet, though - it’s why they like it so much - and there isn’t even a radio on right now. Fucking hell, talk about unfair. He’s being railroaded into a conversation he very much doesn’t want to ever have. If any of this was fair, he wouldn’t have to defend his decision to tell Neil to fuck off.

In fact, if life was fair, he would never have to hear the name Neil Josten again.

“You want to know why it wouldn’t work?" Andrew asks. "You know what he said to me? He said I was _respectful._ And _intuitive._ And you know what he is? Oblivious. Selfish. Where does he get off, saying things like _I thought you were a good person?_ Like he’s fucking mocking me.”

He pauses, because he's right back at his original point, so he reiterates it for good measure: “Neil is a fucking liar because he _doesn’t_ like me.” 

Jean looks pained, but Jeremy is the one who asks, “How do you know Neil doesn’t like you? That sounds … um, kind of the opposite, actually.” 

Andrew could pick from any of a dozen reasons why. Neil doesn’t know the first thing about him. Neil doesn’t know about the nightmares and boundaries and scars and all of the fucked up reasons Andrew needs to be in control at all times. Neil doesn’t know how quickly Andrew burns through subs, skipping from one to the next because he can’t -or won’t (Andrew tries not to think too hard about that distinction) - let them get attached. Neil doesn't know that Andrew’s worst nightmare is the one where he’s the monster, not the victim, and that he refuses to scene with inexperienced subs because he can’t trust them to follow his rules. He's terrified of someone whispering _please_ in the middle of a scene, of losing this last vestige of safety to someone else's carelessness and inexperience.

Neil doesn't know that Andrew has already seen his younger self in Neil's naivety. Every time he looks at Neil, he sees the person he could've been, minus the pain, minus the abuse, minus the broken trust.

And even someone as fucked up as Neil - because there's no denying that Andrew has seen the haunted look in Neil’s eyes, the familiar tension in his shoulders, the subtle startled jumps when someone gets too close, the scars and burns on his face and arms - even someone as fucked up as that will peel back Andrew’s defenses and declare the rot hidden beneath beyond repair.

Neil doesn't know how much he hurts Andrew by simply existing, but again: Andrew can't ever admit that. 

“He doesn’t like me," Andrew insists. "And if you don’t believe it now, just wait until he sees my scene this week.”

Jeremy snorts. “Let me get this straight: you’re never going to talk to him because he said something _nice_ about you? Let's pretend that you're right for a moment. Neither of you really know each other, so it isn’t rocket science. Go on a fucking date like a normal fucking person. Talk about the weather and your work and how much you like long walks on the beach. Ask him how he ended up rooming with Kevin, or if he likes fast cars or find something you have in common. Jean - help me out here.”

And Jean, who’s spent the past few moments watching Jeremy with a kind of soft fondness that makes Andrew want to vomit, finally turns away from Jeremy and his smile is innocent when he responds.

“Spoil him. Take him to a restaurant he'd never be able to afford as a student. Buy him gifts - clothes, jewelry, a collar. It doesn't matter as long as it's expensive. Tell him how pretty he looks. Hold his hand, open the door for him, pull out his chair, let him order anything off the menu." Jean pauses, a wicked look crossing his face. "Ask him if he thinks about your cock as much as you think about his. If he jerks off to the idea of you buried in his ass. Offer him a contract. Tell him all of the ways you want to Dom him. Tell him how he makes you want to lose control. Make him _wish_ he knew you. Make him beg to be your sub and fuck him on your fingers in the middle of the restaurant, if he wants it. Show him how it feels to be spoiled by you. Make it an offer he can't possibly refuse.”

A disgruntled sound escapes Andrew’s throat involuntarily, because Jean and Jeremy are exactly 0% helpful. Both of them, 100% useless. Thankfully, Jeremy is just as offended at Jean’s remark. 

“I asked for help, Einstein,” Jeremy whines, his face red. “That’s not _helpful."_

“It worked with you,” Jean says without batting an eye. Then Jean leans over to whisper something to Jeremy in French, nips his ear. Jeremy squeals but leans into Jean’s chest, and that’s Andrew’s cue to leave. He doesn’t need to witness their foreplay right now, and he’s been friends with them long enough to know when to excuse himself if he doesn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. He throws a twenty on the table to cover his part of the bill and goes to find a cigarette outside with his name on it, but his thoughts continue to tumble around inside his head.

When he steps out under the front awning and lights up, he pulls out his phone and stares at the dark screen for a few minutes in silence, ashing his cigarette more often than he actually smokes it. 

He won’t call Neil. Hopefully, Andrew’s upcoming scene will remind everyone - Jean, Jeremy, Neil, even Andrew himself - that he’s happy with the status quo. The status quo being casual scenes with experienced subs. The status quo being alone. The status quo being safe. 

But honest to God, when Andrew drove Neil home on Halloween, he knew Neil wasn't any of those things. Neil just looked at him, completely trusting, completely _drunk_ , with a soft smile and a dazed expression. No one else saw that smile, but if they had, they'd know why Andrew doesn't want anything to do with Neil now. He'd do anything for that smile, up to and including burning his own boundaries just to see it again. And he'd do it all without hesitation. 

That scares Andrew the most - what he wouldn't give to make Neil happy. As if Andrew even knows what happiness is, what happiness feels like. It doesn't stop him from wanting it for Neil, though, even if it is stupid to think that someone as broken as Andrew could make _anyone_ happy. 

It's why he scrolls through his contact list on his phone, pausing over the entry for _brat._ These are pipe dreams, nothing more.

If he was smart, he'd delete Neil's number and give up on the fantasy.

But he's bitter about Jean being right, about Jeremy making sense, about the whole situation getting so out of control. He's pissed off at himself for being so predictably infatuated with the first sub that looks at him like he hung the moon. (Maybe there have been others, but he's never paid attention). He's never indulged the kind of protective, territorial instinct that he feels around Neil. It could be a bad sign; he could be becoming a jealous Dom. 

He should delete Neil's number, but he hits call instead. 

He doesn't know what he'll say if Neil answers. When they last spoke in the VIP room on Halloween, Neil told Andrew to let him know when he was ready for more. Andrew isn't ready for that, and probably never will be. But something deep within his chest is telling him to give up on the act, to let himself be vulnerable, as Bee says. He could take a chance, and allow himself room to grow. Room to get hurt, room to heal. 

_It's not a marriage proposal,_ Bee told him a couple of days ago during his session. _You could always ask him out for coffee. Something casual. And if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out. There will be other boys._

His palms are sweating, heart racing, nerves fraying. There won't be other boys, that's what he never told Bee. There are no other boys like Neil, not for someone like Andrew. 

It doesn't matter, though, because all his phone does is ring and ring, and ring and ring and ring, and then a pre-recorded voicemail starts playing. Not Neil’s voice, but an unimpassioned robotic voice: _your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system._ Andrew doesn't even get the satisfaction of hearing Neil say something stupid like _you know the drill, leave your number at the beep!_

He hangs up without leaving a message. He doesn't know if it's fair or not that during his single moment of weakness, Neil didn't answer. 

If Bee were here, she'd tell him it was a huge step to reach out. But Andrew's alone, with a burned-up cigarette and a bad attitude and a fuckton of invisible baggage that tells him to give up. It isn't pride or relief that he feels. It's shame, because he did exactly what Neil said he would. Only Neil didn't answer, and Andrew can't risk a repeat of this kind of massive fuck-up. He can't very well try to call Neil if he gets rid of his number.

Although he has already unfortunately memorized it, like every other phone number he's seen in his life (including Dan the Realtor Man, who's number is on the bus stop benches across town), but not having Neil programmed into his phone will hopefully be enough of a barrier to keep this from happening again.

It's not his brightest plan, but he goes with it. He presses delete on the contact, and a warning flashes on the screen. _Are you sure you want to delete ‘brat’ permanently?_

He's sure. 

Because Jean and Jeremy, and Bee, and Neil, they're all wrong. They think Andrew and Neil could work out, that it's enough for Andrew to like Neil and Neil to like Andrew back. 

It's not. His head is a mess, ping-ponging from one thought to the next, one excuse to another. There's a million good reasons to stay away from Neil Josten, and only a few good reasons not to. All he has to do is focus on the overwhelming evidence that spending time with Neil is a bad idea, and in a few days, a week, a month - whenever Neil realizes Andrew doesn’t have anything real to offer him - they'll both move on. 

It's meant to be a comforting thought, but Jean and Jeremy are outside before Andrew has his second cigarette lit. His hands shake when he flicks the lighter, Jean watching intently until it finally catches. In some act of ignorance or stupidity, neither of his friends (if he can still call them that after their commentary tonight) seem to notice Andrew's dark mood. If they do, they must have a death wish because they pull no punches. 

“You’re our ride, asshat,” Jean says, waving a box of leftovers at him when Andrew makes no move to unlock the Maserati.

 _Fuck the French_ , Andrew thinks (not for the first time). Because Jean has a sexy fucking accent - which is unfair because all Andrew has is a few words of twelfth-grade German, and how is he supposed to compete with _French?_ The language of _love?_ Because Jean says words like _asshat_ (thanks for teaching him that one, Kevin). Because Jean steals a drag of Andrew’s cigarette when Jeremy isn’t looking (since Jeremy thinks it’s unhealthy or something asinine). Because Jean taps off the ash and sticks the cigarette between Andrew’s waiting fingers before he opens his stupid French mouth and threatens to bring Andrew’s entire world down with his next sentence.

“So if you’re not going to scene with him, can we?” 

Andrew is speechless. 

He is fucking _speechless_. The word _no_ gets caught in his throat; he’s not Neil’s Dom. It’s not like he has any reason to tell Jean not to. Other than his _feelings,_ but when have those ever mattered? And frankly, Jean is out of line for asking in the first place. The last thing Andrew wants to think about is Jean’s hands on Neil’s body, or Jeremy’s mouth on parts of Neil that Andrew has only seen in dreams.

His poor cigarette finds itself ground to ash under his heel as he malevolently stomps it into the sidewalk, well past the point that it’s put out. He needs to fucking stop himself from snapping and taking out his anger on Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum in front of him, and his cigarette is the least damaging target to focus on right now. 

“He’s not my sub,” Andrew finally manages to say between gritted teeth. It’s not a yes, but it's not a no, either. He physically can’t say yes, and he has no right to say no. He can only repeat the single fact that simultaneously antagonizes and reassures him, punctuating the words with moments of dramatic silence. "He's - _not - my -_ _sub._ "

“Then it shouldn’t bother you, right? Since you think he’s a liar,” Jean says airily. “And an idiot.” 

“You and Jer can fuck whoever you want,” Andrew says, mimicking Jean's same airy tone. “You don’t need my permission for that.”

Jean frowns at the spot on the sidewalk where Andrew ground his cigarette into dust, as if mourning the loss of half of a perfectly good cigarette. “ _Fuck_ is such a crass word, _mon ami."_

“Says the man who just called me an asshat _,_ ” Andrew mutters under his breath. 

But he tells himself this is for the best. Neil can’t be his sub, but Andrew is willing to admit he is currently (not permanently) infatuated with Neil’s smile and dimples and blue eyes. He’s possessive and jealous and frustrated, and that's a dangerous but not infallible combination. He'll get over it eventually.

In the meantime, he trusts Jean and Jeremy - Jean especially, who's undeniably a top-quality Dom. So if Andrew is going to watch Neil put on the participant wristband every week, he might as well rest assured that Neil isn’t being fucked over by a shitty Dom. For a sub who’s never been a part of a scene before, Neil couldn’t do better than Jean.

When Jean raises his eyebrow at Andrew, still waiting for an answer, Andrew knows he has to say yes. Because Jean still remembers that only a yes is a yes with Andrew. He's the one who taught Andrew that silence isn't an answer, and Andrew hasn’t actually answered his question yet.

Jean-fucking-Moreau.

“You can scene with him,” Andrew sighs. What he doesn’t say is that he hopes it hurts when he sees Neil with someone else, how he hopes it breaks something inside of himself because he deserves it. He's grown too attached to watching Neil over these past few months, and he wants to prove to himself how much of a terrible idea Neil Josten is. If knowing Jean and Jeremy are scening with Neil hurts, Andrew will gladly welcome that pain. It'll only serve to remind him of why it's dangerous to open up again. 

Jean keeps frowning at Andrew, like he’s questioning Andrew’s sanity or picking apart his insecurities. He doesn't say anything else, though, which Andrew counts as a win. 

Even if it feels like he's losing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone here jerejean fans?? because that’s my shit. Or kerejean???? kerejean is NOT happening in this fic, Kevin is definitely with Thea, i just mean in general if you had to pick between jerejean and kerejean which is your fav?


	5. Fuck Andrew Minyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/tags: restraints/cuffs, blindfolds, use of safewords/stoplight system, anal sex, Neil gets eaten out + fingered, paddling, rough sex, Neil fantasizing about someone else during the whole thing. it's 100% consensual, but both characters have ulterior motives that aren't discussed until after they have sex. If you see something else that you think should be tagged, let me know and I'll tag it! I do my best but don't always know what could be sensitive subject matter to someone. 
> 
> As always thank you thANK YOU for the kudos and comments!! I read every single one and when I get stuck writing a scene or editing y’all motivate me to keep going. 
> 
> Also, to everyone who liked Andrew's POV last week, I've got more chapters for him coming up! I think the next one or two chapters are Neil's POV but Andrew will DEFINITELY be back after that :)

Fuck Andrew Minyard.

No, really. _Fuck_ Andrew Minyard. 

It’s been a week - no, almost two weeks, maybe? - since Andrew said he wasn’t _interested_ in Neil, as if Neil was a tired cliche that tasted wrong on Andrew’s tongue. Not that there was any tasting or tongues, because there hadn't been. There had been nothing but bitter disappointment and rejection and all-consuming embarrassment. 

It still hurts to think about, so he tries not to. Kevin calls it denial, but Kevin fucking _would_ , wouldn't he? Because Kevin never had to fight for Thea. He never had to convince Thea that he was a good enough sub for her, never had to question his own worth like Neil is now. Kevin doesn't understand what Neil's so broken up about. 

Neil's brain has been stuck on a loop ever since that night, replaying one sentence over and over again until he's sure he'll never forget it. _I t_ _hought you'd be a good Dom._ It feels like a sick joke. _Y_ _ou're a shitty Dom._ That's what he wishes he'd said. And while he's on the topic of regret, he wishes he hadn't called Andrew a good person, either, because he was fucking wrong about that, too. Apparently, the depth of Neil's ineptitude ( _inexperience,_ Andrew's small voice corrects him, a mocking whisper in his ear) goes far beyond what he thought was humanly possible. Neil probably couldn't have made a bigger idiot of himself if he'd tried. 

To say he's been dramatically wallowing is an understatement, but he has every right. Kevin's advice was unhelpful at best: _j_ _ust forget about him._ And Thea offered to talk to Andrew on his behalf, but that's just sad. He could text Jeremy, but Jeremy tells Jean everything (and how can he not? They live together; they're practically _married_ ), and Neil gets the feeling that Jean would lecture him about emotional maturity and the importance of communication or some shit. 

So it's no surprise that Neil ends up spilling (mostly) everything to Dan during his shift at Jim Bean's on Friday afternoon, because apparently she's the only person in the world that has an ounce of sense. Dan's sitting on the counter beside the sink, texting someone while she listens to him vent. They've worked together on and off for the past year, long enough for Dan to know that Neil opening up is a rare occurrence. Neil suspects her distracted texting is a facade to make him more comfortable talking about his problems, and he appreciates the effort. 

"It's not fair, you know?" Neil whines while he's scouring the inside of the iced coffee pitcher, a thankless task since it's humanly impossible to remove the ingrained tint of iced coffee from the plastic. "He seemed like he was into me. And then he invited me to talk in private and told me to fuck off. I mean, who does that? Couldn't he have done that, I don't know, more tactfully?" 

"Probably?" She says, more of a question than a statement as she glances up from her phone. "I mean, I don't personally know the guy, but it sounds like he's kind of a dick."

Neil groans, practically throwing the pitcher into the drying rack. "You're not supposed to agree so easily. You're supposed to ask for proof or something, I don't know. I need you to look at this objectively and tell me if I'm going crazy or not. You're better at this than I am." 

Dan raises an eyebrow at him. "Better at what? Talking about feelings?"

Neil nods, blushing. 

"Fine. Just tell me what he did." 

It's not easy, but Neil does it. He recounts the whole scene from the bar, and says Andrew saved him from a handsy Dom. That Andrew drove him home, and didn't try to make a move or invite himself inside. That Andrew returned Neil's phone after he forgot it in Andrew's car. That he texted Neil - _flirted,_ Neil dares to admit, and he shows Dan the texts. 

"I mean, I can see why you'd think he was flirting," Dan says, handing Neil's phone back after she's read the texts. "So maybe there's a reason he freaked out. Maybe your boy is like Matt - maybe he's too shy to admit he likes you, and you came on too strong."

"Matt's not shy," Neil says with a frown. Half the time that Neil works with Dan, he might as well be working with Matt, too, because Matt clings to her like a lost puppy. More often than not, he'll sprawl out at one of the back tables and order enough coffee to drown in until Dan's shift is over. He's clearly head-over-heels for Dan, and Neil can't exactly imagine a version of Matt that's shy. He's over six feet tall, for God's sake, and built like a fucking tank. 

"Believe me," Dan says, "He is. He threw up on our first date because he was so nervous, and then wouldn't talk to me for a week afterwards because he was convinced I'd be disgusted with him or something." 

"Andrew isn't shy," Neil insists. "He's not. He straight up told me I was inexperienced. That he wasn't interested. _To my face._ That's not something a shy person does." 

Dan pauses, setting down her phone finally and looking him in the eye. "So he's an asshole." She pauses, narrowing her eyes at Neil. "He's like you."

"Did you just call me an asshole?"

"In the best way possible," she says sweetly. "But I'm serious. When I first met you, I thought you were a fucking prick. You wouldn't talk to anyone about, like, normal stuff. Family. Friends. What you were studying. You were - intense, that's all. And it took like a solid six months before you said something other than _pass me the lids_ or _do you have change for a twenty_?"

"So you think I found someone who's ... intense?" 

"Think about it: the entire time I've known you, you've never talked about _any_ one. Not a guy, not a girl. Matt thought you were some kind of robot when he met you for the first time. You don't do things half-assed. I mean, why do you even like this guy?"

Neil wonders if it was a mistake to bring this up with Dan. He doesn't want to think about all of the ways that Andrew's caught his attention.

"Fuck, I don't know, he's hot?" Neil growls. A complete lie, but wouldn't that be easier? If Andrew was just a hot piece of ass to fuck out of his system? "Wait -"

"Don't," Dan warns him. "Whatever you're thinking, it's a bad idea."

"I haven't said anything," Neil says.

"Yeah, but your face. That's how you looked when you thought using twice the amount of floor cleaner would make the floors twice as clean." 

Neil grumbles _shut up,_ but he's already reaching for his phone because Dan has a point. Why _does_ Neil like Andrew? So what if he's soft in unexpected places: gentle where he should be sharp, careful when he should be reckless? And the opposite: why Andrew _stopped_ being all of those things so abruptly? 

Dan is right about Andrew and Neil having something in common: they're both liars. 

Neil really should have realized it sooner. He should've seen the tells when Andrew said he wasn't interested, should've caught on when Andrew said that he doesn’t play games and it's so painfully clear that he _does._

"He called me," Neil says, typing a text out before he can stop himself.

"What?" Dan asks.

"He called me. A few days ago. Last weekend, I think? Sunday - I told him to let me know when he changed his mind, and I missed his call." 

"You're not making sense." 

"He didn't leave a message. Didn't text. If he was really interested, wouldn't he try again? But it's been a whole week, and I think he's fucking with me. He thinks this is some kind of game."

It had been a fifty-fifty split when Neil missed Andrew's call whether he should call him back. Kevin said no (of course), that Andrew should've reached out again if he was serious instead of playing the telephone equivalent of ding-dong-ditch. Thea said yes (of course), because she seems to think Andrew is some kind of timid deer. Jean said it's Neil choice ( _of course_ ), since both of them are overthinking it. Jeremy said it doesn't matter ( _of-fucking-course_ ), because they'll see each other soon and work it out in person.

But they're all wrong. Everyone but Dan.

"You were right," Neil says. 

Dan looks - strangely - worried. "I - what?" 

Neil stares at the text he's typed out: _wanna fuck later?_

It's a bad - no, fucking _terrible_ \- idea, but he wants to stop over-thinking everything. He doesn't need to wait around for someone else to make his decisions for him. He wants to have sex with Andrew. He wants to be his sub. He wants to be controlled and fucked and left a sobbing mess of cum and tears and snot. He wants _so much_ , but he can't have it if he doesn't take things into his own hands.

Because Andrew told Neil exactly what he wanted, hadn't he? He'd put the ball in Neil's court, so to speak. Andrew had said _no,_ but he hadn't said _never_ , and there's enough ambiguity there for Neil to cling to.

"I'm gonna do it," he announces as he presses send. 

He’s fine. He's a mature adult who is going to be a college graduate within a year. He can make stable, emotionally sound decisions about his interpersonal relationships. 

"Do what?" Dan asks hesitantly.

Neil's phone buzzes, response already flashing on the screen. 

_Sure, tonight?_

"I'm gonna fuck Roland." 

\---

Neil really is fine. He means it this time; it isn't a defense mechanism. It's the honest-to-God truth.

That's why he’s perfectly fine when he gets home and tells Kevin he won't be back for a while. Possibly the whole night. 

It's a mature decision, one that doesn't need explaining or excusing. He can fuck who he wants. It's not like he's not trying to avoid wondering what Andrew's hands would feel like against his skin. Or imagining what Andrew's cock would taste like against his tongue. 

Sure, he wouldn't have had sex with Roland under normal circumstances, but his current situation has made for dire straits. He needs experience, okay? For Andrew. Not just for Andrew - for himself, too. Maybe just for Andrew. 

Fine: definitely for Andrew, and that's a really, really bad idea, but his head is a mess. He knows going over to Roland's is a bad idea. Already, a small voice in the back of his head says this isn't something he can take back, but now that he's got the idea lodged in his brain, he can't shake it lose. Best case scenario: Roland Doms him and Neil loves it. Worst case scenario: Roland Doms him and Neil hates it. Either way, he wins. He either gets over Andrew, or he gets experience to prove to Andrew that he's not some BDSM neophyte. Win-fucking-win.

It might not be _quite_ so simple, but that's how he's justified it in his head, and he's not about to take a step back and ask himself why he hasn't slept with someone since Freshman year, since he stopped trying because it didn't ever feel _right,_ since it was always so forced and perfunctory and left him feeling sweaty and gross and dirty. 

(Part of him hopes Roland can fuck him until he forgets Andrew's name.)

Roland won't question why Neil's suddenly decided to look for a quick fuck, either, which makes Neil's plan basically foolproof. Get in, get sexed up, (hopefully) realize there's better Doms out there than Andrew, get out, move on. Plus, no matter the outcome, Roland isn't going to get emotionally attached to Neil over a one night stand.

Simple. 

Neil is still confident in his plan when he stuffs a change of clothes into his backpack and slams his apartment door shut with absolutely no trace of pent up sexual frustration. Because he’s not in a dark mood; he’s _fine._

He’s so fine, in fact, that he ends up in a suburb outside of campus with no effort: tree-lined streets, sidewalks a mile wide, two-car garages. The closest bus stop is a half-mile down the road from the gated entrance to the subdivision - which is clearly too good for a bus stop - and he ends up walking for almost half an hour before he gets to the address Roland sent him. It’s a nice house, if a little plain. Then again, Neil’s only experience with suburbia was his father’s house in Baltimore. Cold and impersonal, just like Nathan himself. Not that Neil needs to be thinking of his father right now. 

The door opens before Neil even rings the bell.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Roland says, ushering him inside and eyeing Neil’s all-black outfit. “You know, I was surprised when you texted me. It was, uh, very forward." Roland pauses, a slow smile creeping across his face. "I like forward." 

Neil nods, letting Roland take his jacket. It’s a very domestic gesture. A very domestic setting, now that he looks around - there’s a plant on the coffee table, a book on interior design next to it. Matching coasters. Not at all what he expected from Eden’s most popular bartender. 

“Yeah,” Neil says, his throat a little tight. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. For the past few months, he’s dreamed about the day a Dom would scene with him. And even if today doesn’t work out the way he planned, it’s not like he’s asking Roland to marry him. Neil worries at his lip while he settles onto the couch. It’s unreasonably comfortable, and he almost wants to ask if they can just sit there for the rest of the night. Roland settles into the space beside him, but doesn’t touch him yet. 

“So what changed your mind?” Roland asks. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and something crawls under Neil’s skin while he fidgets. He didn’t come here to talk; he came here because he wanted ~~someone~~ Roland to Dom him. _Hard_. “You didn’t seem too interested when I offered to Dom you a couple of months ago.” 

“Dunno,” Neil mumbles. “Do I need a reason?”

“No,” Roland says, running a hand through his hair. His arms flex, and Neil can’t help but stare. He needs ~~Andrew~~ someone to fuck him. No - he needs _Roland._ He’s here for _Roland._ He wants _Roland_ to fuck him. Rolandrolandroland. Not Andrew. That's the point of tonight - forgetting Andrew. “I mean, you said you wanted to fuck in your text. Is this regular fucking or Domming-you-into-the-mattress fucking? Because I'm fine with either.”

“No-strings-attached fucking,” Neil suggests. “I want you to Dom me. I don’t want to think for the next few hours, and everyone says you’re good at making that happen.” He doesn’t tell Roland that _everyone_ means Jeremy in particular, because he’s the one who recommended Roland when Neil had first come to Eden's, in the off-chance Neil had wanted to scene with a Dom. It makes sense, though. Neil already knows and trusts Roland, and Roland has Dommed approximately half of Eden’s subs. No-strings-attached, check. Reputable, check. And if Jeremy thinks he's a good Dom ... Neil isn't one to question that. He’s being smart about this. Mature, remember? Making responsible decisions. “I want you to make me forget.”

He doesn’t say forget Andrew specifically, and it doesn't feel like a lie. He wants to forget about life. About the conversation he had with Dan, about Thea and Kevin's perfect relationship, about Jean and Jeremy so in-sync with each other. 

Roland doesn’t push for an explanation, though. He simply nods, accepting what Neil says without question. 

\---

After a rather protracted discussion about safe sex, limits, and safe words (Roland’s is _leprechaun;_ Neil chose _rabbit),_ Neil ends up tied to the bed. They decide on nothing too intense since it’s Neil’s first real scene and he has slightly more interest in being fucked than being Dommed right now, which Roland is more than willing to comply with. 

Roland doesn’t use rope; he has cuffs for Neil’s wrists and ankles, anchored to the actual bed frame so Neil can’t move once he’s naked and starfished across the sheets face-down. Once he’s in place, Roland pulls out the blindfold - which Neil had said _how cliche_ when Roland first suggested it, but he’s still curious enough to try it. The blindfold makes everything a hundred times more sensitive.

Roland asks for a color, and Neil says green because he's relaxed. He didn't know how he'd react to the blindfold, but it's surprisingly calming. His worries fade away as he hyper-focuses on the sensations of Roland running a hand up his thigh, his mouth pressing to the inside of Neil's leg, fingers teasing against exposed skin. Before Neil can react to the shift in weight on the mattress, Roland plunges tongue-deep into his asshole. Not Roland. Andrew. 

Suddenly, Neil is not just okay with blindfolds. He is a _very big_ fan of them. Yup, definitely a very big fan, not overrated in the slightest. Because he can imagine every touch belongs to a man who's not even here.

Roland eats him out with more enthusiasm than Neil’s ever experienced, but to be fair, he’s only experienced it once or twice before. Andrew’s voice cuts through the sound of Neil’s soft moans: _inexperienced._ A gentle reminder that Neil is here to forget about Andrew. A reminder that he won't be completely inexperienced after tonight. 

Neil drowns out the rest of that thought by moaning louder as Roland kneads Neil’s hip with his free hand, almost digging into the muscle as he works Neil open slowly. Without the ability to see anything, Neil feels like he’s floating. 

“More,” Neil begs, straining against the cuffs as he arches his back. “More, Sir.” 

His voice is already wrecked. Roland’s hands and mouth and body are slowly erasing Neil’s very ability to _breathe,_ let alone think about Andrew. 

Other than that thought, or the word _inexperienced_ that's still ricocheting around inside his head. And now that he's trying to stop thinking about Andrew, that's the only thing his brain is capable of conjuring up for his viewing pleasure: Andrew, licking a stripe up Neil's thigh before plunging his tongue into his asshole. Andrew, sliding his tongue between two fingers already pushing inside of Neil's tight warmth. Andrew, blinking up at him lazily as he slows his ministrations from frantic, hurried, to languid, torturous. Neil finds it difficult to focus on Roland's fingers sliding into him, because now he’s imagining _Andrew’s_ fingers inside of him, pushing against the soft spots that make him weak in the knees. He’s imagining _Andrew’s_ tongue against the sensitive skin of his cock, lapping at him gently until Neil shivers and bucks against the sensation. There's a slight possibility that the blindfold isn’t helping things anymore - maybe if he could see Roland, he’d be less inclined to imagine Andrew in his place. But he doesn’t want to tell Roland to take it off, because that feels like admitting something is wrong, and when he imagines Andrew between his legs, it feels absolutely _right._

“Fuck,” Neil whispers, his hands balling into impotent fists when he realizes can’t touch himself to relieve some of the building pressure in his abdomen. “ _F_ _uck_ , that’s good.” 

There’s a replying laugh before another finger presses inside of Neil. He’s still not fully relaxed, and the resulting stretch is more burn than pleasure, but that’s what Neil loves - the feeling of fullness, of _too much_ , the sting of being pressed open before he's fully loosened. It’s perfect, and he strains against the ankle cuffs, trying to spread his legs wider. He wants more. _Needs_ more. 

“Hurt me, Sir,” Neil whines, which earns him a sharp slap to the side of his thigh. 

“Patience,” Roland huffs out before going back to stretching Neil open at an even slower pace.

But Neil gets his wish as Roland slides a third finger in quickly, scissoring them to stretch him wide open. After a moment, Neil feels the fingers inside of him go completely still, and his body goes taught around them, clenching futilely against them.

“So fucking tight,” Roland growls, pushing his fingers deeper in quick thrusts. There might be a fourth finger now, but Neil can’t quite tell through the lube and slide of skin against skin. 

He can’t help it when he _swears_ this is exactly how it would feel to have Andrew’s hand in his ass. How it would feel to have Andrew’s mouth swallowing down his cock when Neil arches off the bed. A hand pins Neil’s hips to the bed forcefully, and Neil hopes it leaves a bruise. He imagines Andrew sitting back on his ankles, still fully clothed while Neil is naked and exposed and helpless. He imagines Andrew slowly unzipping his pants, palming his cock through his boxers as he leans closer to Neil to rut against his body. 

He imagines Andrew, pressing the tip of his cock against Neil's hole, shoving Neil into the mattress and fucking into him at a frantic pace until Neil is dripping precum and sobbing for Andrew to _fuck him harder._

“Fuck me,” Neil begs. “I don’t need to be stretched anymore. I need _you._ ”

It’s a lie that he doesn't need to be stretched - Neil is still too tense and impatient, but he can’t wait any longer after imagining Andrew on top of him, pounding into his ass. He can feel himself clenching around the fingers still inside of him, and he struggles to release the tension from his body when those fingers refuse to brush against his prostate to give him any real relief.

And he doesn't know if _you_ means Roland or Andrew but it doesn't matter because Roland will never know that Neil is imagining that the hand on his thigh, the mouth on his skin, and the soft groans coming from that end of the bed all belong to _Andrew_. 

There’s a pause, as if Roland’s deciding whether to trust Neil’s judgement or not. In the end, he pulls his fingers out and Neil almost cries in relief when he hears the condom wrapped tear open, but he immediately feels that it's not Roland’s cock pressing against his lube-slicked opening. 

“Fuck, baby,” Roland breathes, pushing a plug slowly into Neil. 

It’s Neil’s own damn fault for agreeing to toys. He wanted to give up all control to Roland, to let his pleasure and pain belong to someone else entirely. And that’s exactly what Roland is doing now, teasing Neil slowly, taking his time to open him up. It's for the best, since Neil knows full-well that he's not stretched enough to be fucked without risking a tear. Neil hates the delay, because he’s painfully hard by this point, straining for release. But at the same time, he _loves_ it, because it hurts and every throbbing pulse of his cock reminds him that all he has to do is lay here like a good boy and take it. That Roland will make sure he's so fucked out he won't care who's inside of him anymore. 

When Roland finally has the plug seated firmly in Neil’s ass, he checks in again, and Neil says _green_ without hesitation because he knows he can take so much more than this. Because he knows this slight ache of his body contracting around the plug doesn’t even touch the surface of what he wants Roland to do to him tonight. 

When he wakes up in the morning, he wants to feel the burn in his thighs, his ass, his entire body. He wants to feel used and broken down. 

He says as much to Roland, who laughs in response.

“Such a good sub,” he growls, running a hand down Neil’s back. “You said either the paddle or flogger were fine earlier. How do you feel about the flogger right now?” 

“I’d like that, Sir,” Neil says as he tries to catch his breath. Now that Roland’s stopped fingering him and fucking him slowly onto the plug, his arousal settles into a dull ache in his body rather than a sharp need. But every time he moves or shifts or _breathes,_ the plug knocks against his prostate just enough to make him clench down with a sharp intake of breath. He tries to stay as still as possible, knowing he hasn’t even been properly fucked yet and he’s already falling apart. 

Jeremy was right; Roland absolutely knows what he’s doing. 

“Color and safeword?” 

“Green,” Neil repeats. “Rabbit. Not using it.” 

He can’t quite put together full sentences right now, not while he’s concentrating on all of the sensations dragging him closer to the edge of pleasure. 

“Good boy,” Roland says. A hand comes up to Neil’s neck and runs down the entire length of his exposed spine. “I’m going to flog you right here.” His hand ghosts across Neil’s back. “You must stay absolutely still. You’re not allowed to move or come while I’m flogging you. As soon as you move, or use a safeword, or change colors, it stops.”

A whining sound gets caught in Neil’s throat. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stay still while Roland flogs him, and he wants more than a few strikes across his back. But he won’t protest because right now he isn’t Neil Josten anymore. He’s a sub who asked a Dom to take care of him. And that’s exactly what Roland is doing when he leans close to Neil’s ear and speaks in a low voice.

“Don’t worry, little sub,” he says. “As soon as the flogging stops, the fucking starts.” 

_That_ makes Neil moan again, his body aching at the thought, his cock dragging across the sheets underneath him as he tries to rut into the mattress. Immediately, Roland spanks him lightly and presses Neil hard into the mattress with his free hand. 

“No moving,” Roland reminds him. “Ready?”

“Yes, Sir,” Neil pants, trying not to wiggle in place. He takes a steadying breath and focuses on the feeling of the cuffs on his wrists, the scratchy sensation as he twists his hands into fists. “Ready.” 

It doesn’t take more than a second for Roland to land the first blow against Neil’s back. It almost ends there, because Neil has to suppress a full-body shiver when the flogger makes contact with his skin. He manages to stay still, though, and it feels better than he could’ve ever imagined. The second blow is slightly harder than the first, and the sting across his back makes Neil groan into the mattress. He can’t see when Roland moves to land the third blow almost immediately after the second, and he cries out. 

“Color,” Roland demands. 

“Green,” Neil pants. “It’s green.” 

He still hasn’t moved despite the way his body aches for _more_. Each blow starts with a sharp sting that makes Neil’s heart race, but the way the pain grows into a bone-deep ache in the space between blows makes him hard. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last, and it’s only been three blows.

“Safeword?” Roland asks.

“Rabbit,” Neil says between breaths. “Not using it.” 

“Then we’ll continue,” Roland says. 

He doesn’t make Neil count as he strikes him a fourth, fifth, and sixth time, but Neil knows exactly how many he’s taken. It’s on the seventh that his body finally arches off of the bed involuntarily as he moans, desperate for more. Neil is panting from exertion or adrenaline or arousal, or maybe a combination of all three. The blindfold is still in place, so he can’t see Roland moving, but he hears the flogger being set on the floor. The mattress shifts as Roland crawls between Neil’s legs and runs a hand along the inseam of his thigh.

“You moved,” Roland says in an easy voice. “Can you tell me what that means?”

“Fuck me,” Neil says, swallowing hard. “I - it means you fuck me, Sir.” He knows he must look debauched already, can feel the precum against his stomach where his cock is pressed, hard and wanting. And his back; he can only imagine the bruises that will be there in the morning.

“Very well,” Roland says, asking for Neil’s safeword and color one more time. 

It’s green. It’s _rabbit._ He’s not using it. Then he feels the plug being pulled out of his ass, and vaguely registers the sound of another condom being unwrapped before Roland is pressed against his back, positioning himself until just the tip of his cock slips past Neil's rim.

This part - this is what undoes Neil. The first stretch, the first burn as his body tenses against the intrusion. His hands yank against the restraints, trying to reach his own cock, trying to shift his body to get _more_ , trying to sink fully onto the erection pressing into him. He can’t, though; he can arch his back and pull on the restraints, but there isn’t enough give for him to get any purchase against the bed. Especially when Roland presses Neil's chest into the mattress with one firm hand, the other braced against Neil's hip.

“More,” Neil whines, forgetting to call Roland _Sir,_ not caring that his voice is wrecked and his breathing is uneven. On the bright side, the blindfold makes it easier to let go of his insecurities. Right now, the only thought in his head is the running commentary: _fuck me fuck me fuck me._ It’s not his most lucid moment, but he’s enjoying this too much.

Roland pushes into him slowly for the first few strokes. Neil clenches around him involuntarily, and whines each time Roland pulls out, waiting to be properly fucked, but nothing happens. In fact, Roland pulls out of Neil completely. Everything pauses, and Neil aches at the loss. 

“Color,” Roland pants out. Neil can tell Roland has shifted to sit on the mattress between Neil's open legs.

“Green,” Neil tells him. “It’s green. You can fuck me harder. It won’t hurt.”

“Don’t lie,” Roland warns him. “It’ll fucking hurt.”

Neil’s about to protest that he _wants_ it to hurt in the best way possible when Roland suddenly moves forward, crawls up Neil's body until he can growl low against Neil’s neck, "But that’s how you like it, right?” 

Neil nods desperately, panting out _yes sir,_ and Roland runs a cautious hand over Neil’s ass before slamming his cock into him with a quick snap of his hips.

Before Neil can catch his breath after the first thrust, Roland drives into him again. It’s deep and ruthless and Neil can feel Roland’s cock drag against his prostate with every stroke until his own cock feels like it’s weeping into the sheets, but he won’t come yet. Tears start to gather on Neil’s lashes because it’s so _perfect,_ everything he’s wanted culminating in this moment, and it's not enough. It's not Andrew. 

His only coherent thought is that the sounds he’s making right now should belong to Andrew, even if it’s Roland fucking him senseless. Maybe this is crossing a line - fantasizing about someone else while he's having sex with a perfectly good Dom - but he can’t help himself. Wanting a Dom who doesn't want him back. It’s masochism at it’s finest, he thinks blankly as Roland continues fucking into him mercilessly. 

Neil thoroughly regrets asking Roland to fuck him harder after that, because that is _exactly_ what happens and it only makes him think of Andrew more. He’s fucked so hard that he whimpers with every thrust, not even trying to hide from his own fantasies anymore. He pretends it's Andrew, letting himself fall into the space between fantasy and reality. Every time Roland steadies himself with a hand against Neil’s back, every time he fucks into him, it’s a perfect symphony of skin and pleasure and pain because it's not Roland anymore; it's _Andrew_. Neil makes sounds he didn’t know were possible, and then he's been given him permission to come.

It doesn’t take much to push Neil over the edge at that point. With fingers bruisingly tight on his hip and a cock buried in his ass, Neil is completely undone when he comes. For a few seconds, his brain stops working completely. Nothing exists beyond the feeling of ecstasy washing over him as his orgasm hits him violently. Neil can’t stop the wrecked moan that slips out of his mouth, or the strangled name that comes out at the very end: “ _Andrew_.” 

Neil is fucked harshly for only a couple more thrusts, and he cries at the loss when the cock finally pulls out of his ass and he hears a condom pulled off, feels come splattering across his back. Tears slide down the sides of Neil’s face because he doesn’t want this to ever stop. Not now, not when his body is still trembling with aftershocks from a violent kind of pleasure, boneless and fragile. Not when it’s so easy to get lost in the overwhelming sensations until nothing exists but the electricity humming beneath his skin, the too-sensitive brush of his softening cock against the sheets beneath him as his hips keep thrusting. 

Eventually, Neil feels the bed shift, and he's uncuffed from the bed finally. Then the blindfold is tugged down. 

By that point, Neil realizes the extent of his mistake. Andrew isn't there. 

Only Roland, who is looked at Neil with something like disappointment in his eyes. 

This isn't like jerking off in the privacy of his own room, where Neil only needs to face his shame in the bathroom mirror. What makes it worse is that his plan completely and utterly failed - he hadn't stopped thinking about Andrew once, and Andrew won't think Neil is experienced if all he's done is fuck other Doms while moaning Andrew's name. 

In retrospect, it was probably (definitely) a fucked up decision to text Roland in the first place, and Neil's face is burning with humiliation and frustration, especially since he wasn't exactly up-front with Roland about his real motivations for wanting to get his brains fucked out today. He wasn't even honest with himself, but he was so sure that having Roland Dom him would stop him from thinking about Andrew. The sad thing is this Roland is clearly disappointed, and for some reason, Neil feels compelled to say this definitely isn't rock bottom. That, all things considered, saying someone else's name during sex isn't that big of a deal compared to jumping out of a moving vehicle when he was a teenager. Or being shot at. Or watching his father kill a man. But he gets the feeling that trying to explain away saying Andrew's name during sex by admitting to his familial mafia ties won't go over well. 

Neil decides to play it safe and waits for Roland to bring it up. Maybe there's a chance that Roland didn't hear Andrew's name, right? Anyway, he still feels like his thoughts are barely half-formed in the wake of his orgasm, so it's not like he could explain what just happened even if he tried.

“You want some water?” Roland asks. 

Neil manages to nod, since his voice is still wrecked, his throat still raw. Roland doesn’t say anything else until Neil’s had a drink and a chance to shower and clean himself off and get re-dressed in the sweats he brought over. It's enough time to realize that Roland most _definitely_ heard Andrew's name, and Neil only briefly consider the pros and cons of sneaking out of the bathroom window when he comes to that realization. 

In the end, he decides to accept his embarrassing fate and slinks out of the bathroom, settling onto Roland's bed as he pulls on his socks and shoes. It's not like he can avoid Roland for the rest of his life.

Roland finally clears his throat after a few moments of silence. “You can stay if you’d like."

Roland's probably only saying it because it's the polite thing to say. Neil might be full of bad decisions, but sticking around seems to be pushing even his bad judgement.

“I should probably go,” Neil mumbles, settling his backpack onto his shoulders. “But thanks.”

“Because you have somewhere better to be at midnight on a Friday?" Roland asks innocently. "Or because you’d rather this happened with someone else?”

“You heard,” Neil says with a wince. It's fine. Totally fine. Not a big deal, right? People say the wrong name during sex. Often, if sitcoms are to be believed. 

Roland snorts. “I heard. I’m pretty sure the neighbors did, too. But that doesn’t mean you have to run out of here without saying goodbye.” 

“Is that some kind of euphemism?” Neil jokes.

“No,” Roland grins, sitting next to Neil. “It’s called being a responsible Dom. Aftercare is a real thing, Neil. If you’re going to leave, at least let me give you something for your back. Just some ice.” 

They end up in the kitchen, with Neil holding an ice pack against the middle of his back while Roland makes him tea.

“So Andrew,” Roland says casually, setting a teabag in Neil’s empty cup. “I’m going to assume you meant Andrew Minyard.” 

Neil stays dead silent, staring at the cup as Roland pours hot water over the teabag. 

“Right. Okay. Well, I’m not going to say anything if you don’t want me to," Roland continues. "Whatever is going on between you two is none of my business. And it’s not like you’re the first person to ever call me by the wrong name. I just want you to know that I don't think it's that big of a deal. No hard feelings.”

“But it feels like a big deal,” Neil says before he can stop himself. “And Andrew kind of hates me?” 

Roland sits down across from him, taking Neil’s admission as an invitation to continue the conversation. “Why would he hate you?” 

“Because I’m _‘inexperienced’_ ,” Neil says, making air quotes. “And because last time we spoke, he basically told me to fuck off. So this is me, fucking off. Or trying too, I guess. Not that it’s really working. I mean ... Time for plan B. Or plan C, actually.” 

“Sucks, man,” Roland says, clinking his mug against Neil’s halfheartedly. “For what it’s worth, he’s been coming to Eden’s for a long time. And, um … full disclosure, I guess? Not that there’s a good way to put this.” 

Neil groans, thunking his head against the table as Roland wrinkles his nose.

“Andrew and I used to scene together," Roland explains quickly. "And I’m not saying that to be cruel or something. Just … Andrew doesn’t trust people easily. He only scenes with subs that are well-trained because he can’t trust himself otherwise. At least that's what he's used to say. Haven't scened with him in a while.” 

It’s not any of Neil’s business, but Roland keeps talking. And Neil isn’t about to stop him - everyone talks about Andrew as if he's a danger to Neil. _Everyone_ being Kevin. Actually, it’s really only Kevin who says that. Thea and Jeremy and Jean seem unphased by the prospect of Neil being Andrew's sub. But no one talks about Andrew so candidly, and Neil is vulnerable enough in the moment to listen to whatever secrets Roland is willing to spill. 

“All I’m saying is that there’s probably a reason he doesn’t want to scene with you right now.” Roland pauses, swirling the tea in his cup. “I could ask him. Find out, if you wanted. Discreetly."

This time, it’s Neil’s turn to snort. “I can see that going over well. _Hey, Andrew, not that I’m asking for anyone in particular, but why don’t you want to Dom Neil?_ No thanks. He said no once, so it's ... whatever. I’ll find another Dom.”

Roland considers Neil for a very long minute before he replies. “I can give you his cousin’s number, if you want. Andrew will probably kill me, but what’s life without the occasional death threat?” He tries to laugh it off, but Neil’s frown doesn’t budge.

“Why?” 

“Why what?” Roland asks.

“Why give me his cousin’s number?” 

“Because Andrew doesn’t always trust himself, and he was stupid enough and stubborn enough to tell you to fuck off and you were stupid enough and stubborn enough to listen to him.” Roland pauses. "Because I think you get him in a way no one else does." 

“None of what you just said convinces me that calling his cousin is a good idea.” 

“He’s not a bad guy,” Roland says. “Okay, that sounds like something you’d say about a bad guy. But I’m serious. Andrew’s just gone through a lot of shit. If his only objection was that you’re inexperienced … that doesn’t mean he’s not interested. Trust me.” 

Neil bites back the urge to tell Roland to mind his own business. Andrew said he said he wasn’t interested, so Neil isn't about to go behind his back to talk to his cousin in a desperate bid for attention or validation. There are plenty of other Doms out there, and while his current plan did not exactly succeed, it wasn't a complete failure. He _did_ enjoy everything he did with Roland, even if he spent most of the time thinking about Andrew. Maybe he’ll get drunk, fuck around with other Doms for a while, and eventually he'll wake up and realize he isn't hung up on Andrew anymore. It'll just take time. Tonight was only a minor setback in the grand scheme of things - a learning experience. For instance: Neil learned to not say Andrew's name during sex.

“You don’t have to call him if you don’t want to,” Roland says, airdropping Neil the contact information. His screen flashes with the name and number for Nicky Hemmick. “But if you want to give Andrew a chance eventually, Nicky would definitely love to talk to you.” 

"I'm not going to call his cousin," Neil says. "I'm serious - can you just ... forget what I said tonight? All I want is to get over this stupid crush and move on with my life."

“Fine,” Roland says with a shrug, which somehow doesn't make Neil feel any better. 

"Look, I don't know why you and Thea and everyone are convinced that Andrew likes me," Neil says. "But I was _there_ when he said no. He meant it. Like, really, _really_ meant it." 

Roland keeps nodding. "Okay, but what if he _didn't_ mean it? What if he's scared of you?"

Neil has a moment of palm-sweating panic when he wonders if Kevin said something about Neil's family, if Andrew _knows_. Then, as he always does with this particular gut-reaction, he remembers that it doesn't matter anymore. So what if Andrew knows about the Wesninski name? So what if Kevin tells everyone who Neil Josten really is? Nathan is dead and the Moriyama family won't touch him. For a few moments, Neil repeats that like a mantra, telling himself it's not a big deal.

"You okay?" Roland says, looking unsettled. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I just meant that he has a weak spot for pretty boys in pastel colors, even if he pretends to be this black leather macho-Dom all the time." 

"Right," Neil says. "I just - wait, you said he likes _pastels_?" 

Roland grins. "Yeah. You never seen him in anything but black nowadays, right? Well, a long time ago - like _before-I-knew-him_ long time - he loved soft things. Nicky sent me this picture of him and his brother when they were teenagers, and ..." He trails off, pulling out his phone and scrolling absently as he chews on his lip. 

Neil doesn't want to pry, but he can't help his curiosity when he lets out a soft, "And what?"

Roland shoves his phone into Neil's hands, and on the screen is a photo of a much younger Andrew, next to another version of a much younger Andrew. Two Andrews. 

"He used to look like you," Roland says. "Hell, you're practically the same height. Minus your hair, sure ... and I guess he's always been as pale as a fucking ghost. So not quite exactly the same, but he _looked like you._ Vulnerable. Soft."

Roland taps on one of the Andrews on the screen, the one in an oversized baby-blue sweatshirt that comes to his knees, with earrings to match and an overly-bright smile on his face, all white teeth and squinted eyes and wrinkled nose. 

"That's him. I honestly didn't believe it when I saw it for the first time. I realized that I'd never seen Andrew smile in person, and that isn't fucking fair. God, just look at him, right? So when you came to Eden's for the first time, I honestly thought to myself _that could've been Andrew Minyard._ In a different life, where whatever happened to him that made him so pissed off hadn't happened. This tiny ball of snark and personality and light. He would've been just like you. Smiling and carefree and soft and young."

That's weird, Neil decides. That's a decidedly weird thing to say to someone you've just had sex with. Especially since Roland knows that Neil's Andrew-related-thoughts are anything but innocent. He feels wrong for seeing this version of Andrew, considering if Andrew wanted Neil to know about his past, he would've said something.

"We're nothing alike," Neil snaps insistently, shoving Roland's phone away so he doesn't have to look at young Andrew - _happy_ Andrew - and his duplicate. His brother, Neil supposes. Maybe a twin. "He's not that person anymore, and that's the problem. So what if he's into black leather and - and he has the emotional range of a toothpick? He doesn't need someone to try to bring the old version of him back. Whoever he was back then is gone, okay?" 

Just like how Nathaniel is gone. No amount of reminiscing or wishing will bring back the child that giggled in the backseat with his hand out the window while his mom drove across Ohio and Indiana and Illinois to escape their old life, before he knew what and who they were running from. Nothing will bring back the scared teenager who thought the worst thing that could happen would be his own death. Nothing can wash his mother's blood off of his hands. Nothing can stop the nightmares where he's on that California beach, suddenly, achingly alone. 

None of that matters because Nathaniel is as good as dead, and the person left behind is an amalgamation of the most stubborn parts of his former self. His father's sadistic grin. His mother's skill with a gun. His own ability to trust again after being betrayed by his father, his _family._ Trying to bring back the person he was requires breaking down the person he's become. Neil Josten wouldn't survive the transition back to Nathaniel. It would destroy every version of himself. 

Because Nathaniel is as real as Little Red Riding Hood, which is to say he's not real at all. 

Neil hates being reminded that the person he used to be is so far removed from the person he is now. 

"I don't think it's that simple," Roland says. "Andrew wants everyone to think he's unbreakable, right? That he doesn't need anyone or anything. I used to think that he kept subs at a distance because he was this tough guy, but I realized it was an act after Nicky sent me that picture - that he keeps everyone at a distance to protect himself. He's afraid." 

"So what, fear makes him weak?" Neil doesn't have the patience to explain how _wrong_ that entire premise is, and can't stop himself from becoming defensive. "Because if it's fear that makes him care about his subs, I don't think that he's _w_ _eak._ "

"God, no," Roland laughs. "I mean, just look at Jean. Talk about someone who cares about his sub - I know you've watched him and Jeremy scene together. Jean gives Jeremy more care and attention and love than I've ever seen in a relationship, even outside of a BDSM context. And that doesn't make Jean any less of a Dom. What I meant is that - at least in this picture - he used to be like you. A lot like you. And I think that scares him." 

Neil's leg bounces underneath the table, his nervous energy trying to find an outlet as he struggles to fit these pieces of Andrew together. The terrible churning in his gut is too familiar. Neil wonders if Andrew's old life was just as terrible as Nathaniel's was. When Andrew remembers his past, does it hurt because the memories are jagged, raw from unprocessed trauma and heartsickness? Or does it hurt because his old memories are a sharp contrast of happiness to his current despair? Neil hopes it's the latter, for Andrew's sake, because at least that means Andrew was genuinely happy once upon a time. Even if he's not happy anymore, for whatever reason.

Nathaniel didn't really have that. His few happy memories are tainted, thanks to the lens of maturity and hindsight and countless FBI interviews. His mom making French toast every weekend to have breakfast together in her big bed wasn't a sweet bonding moment; it was a desperate bid to keep him quiet and away from his father's dealings downstairs - dealings that often included knives and bloodshed. The road trip to Maine he took with her as a small child wasn't a vacation; it was a failed escape attempt. When she took him outside to look at the moon in their backyard, it was meant to keep him from hearing the silenced gunshots as his father executed men on a plastic tarp in his playroom in the basement. 

He feels sick, wondering what happened to Andrew. 

"Andrew isn't used to getting what he wants," Roland explains. "I think he's afraid of wanting something - some _one_ \- who doesn't want him back. I don't think he knows how to open himself up to that vulnerability ... Like he thinks he doesn't deserve any better.”

"Jesus Christ," Neil mutters. "I thought you said you fucked him, not became his shrink."

"We're good friends," Roland levels a steady glare at Neil. "I don’t want to see him get hurt. By you. By his own stupid stubborn decisions."

His tea is cold by then, and Neil pushes the cup away slowly. "Then why'd you agree to scene with me tonight? If you really think he wants me, doesn’t that make you kind of a dick?"

“Wasn’t he kind of a dick to you on Halloween? Isn’t he the whole reason you asked me to scene with you - because of what he said?”

Neil nods reluctantly, not wanting to confront the fact that he's currently holding Roland to a double standard.

Roland takes the teacup from Neil and walks it over to the sink. "And yeah, I wanted to have sex with you. But I also wanted to see if you'd be any good for him, if it came to that." 

Not for the first time that evening, Neil is stunned into silence. He doesn't know if he should be angry or offended. He isn't upset with Roland for having ulterior motives - not when Neil went into this with the same - but he wonders why Roland couldn't trust him with that information up-front. Not that Neil has exactly earned Roland's trust, given that Neil wasn't exactly up front with him, either. He wonders if it's the same reason why that Andrew doesn't trust him - if there's some part of him that everyone else will always instinctually recognize as dishonest. 

Suddenly, everything feels so much bigger than himself, like he's being helplessly swept up in a tide of someone else's creation, and he can't help the question that comes out.

"Am I good for him?" Neil asks. "You know him better than I do. If I was his sub, would I be good for him?"

Neil's phone starts to ring. The cab Roland called for him must be outside, but Neil doesn't answer it yet. He sways slightly as he gets to his feet, grabbing his backpack. 

"You're already good for him," Roland says. "As a sub, as a friend, as a pain in his ass ... doesn't matter what you call it. You're definitely good for him. But I don't know if Andrew's good for you." 

What hurts the most is that Roland is right. Neil's head has been a mess ever since Andrew stumbled into his life, tearing Andrew-sized holes in his heart. For all of the good that Neil sees in Andrew, he wonders if he's been ignoring the bad and pretending like they'd work out without actually knowing what kind of effort that would take from both of them. He wonders if that's why Andrew has kept him at arm's length. He wonders how many times Andrew has been hurt by subs idealizing him. Romanticizing him. Fetishising him. Subs who might've said they'd give _anything_ to be Andrew's, only to run when they realized how damaged he was, for lack of a better word.

Because unfortunately, Neil knows damaged. Intimately. 

His phone stops ringing.

"I think he could be good for me," Neil says slowly. "If he opened up."

Roland lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, neither agreed nor disagreeing. "Your cab's probably waiting outside." 

He's not wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I've been going back and forth about this chapter for a while now (since it's Neil's first scene and it's not with Andrew, and it's a pairing that not a lot of people are probably interested in) so I've been super worried this would be a huge disappointment or something, so idk how to feel about it but what's done is done now I guess, and anyone who does not like it I am very very sorry!


	6. A New Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags/warnings: brief double penetration, consensual public gang bang. Andrew uses his belt on his sub (it’s Andrew’s Sub of the Week who gets fucked by ten different partners on Eden’s stage if that makes a difference). Alcohol. Brief mentions of anxiety. 
> 
> To everyone who commented/left kudos last week - thank you so much!!! I was so nervous about posting that chapter and the overwhelming response was super sweet and thoughtful and I loved reading all the different reactions! And ofc I'm glad y'all are still here reading along so thank you as always for supporting this fic even when it goes a little wonky :)

When Neil wakes up the next day, he's filled with a mix of unpleasant emotions. Regret is the easiest one to identify, tinged with a little bit of shame and some guilt. 

His first thought is that he should've at least tried to use his four remaining brain cells before making the impulsive decision to fuck the first Dom he could get his hands on just because Andrew said he didn't want him. Especially when that Dom - in a sick twist of fate - used to scene with Andrew. But it's too late to put that cat back in the bag, and Neil has no clue how to fix the mess he's made.

It would help if Neil knew Andrew well enough to know how he will react to the news that Neil's slept with another Dom. He doesn't know if Andrew's the jealous type or the angry type or the passive-aggressive type. He doesn't know if it's worse that Neil slept with someone Andrew knows, or if it would've been worse to sleep with a stranger. (He also doesn't know Andrew's middle name, or whether he's a cat person or a dog person, or how he likes his coffee, or if he cries during sad movies, or what kind of books he reads, but all of those details seem less important right now). 

What he does know is that if he had been serious about being Andrew's sub, he should've been patient. He could've talked to Andrew's friends and talked with Andrew (as a _friend_ ) about why he thought Neil needed more experience. Hell, he could've asked Andrew to set him up with a reputable Dom; Andrew clearly has enough connections at Eden's to know who's trouble and who's not. 

But Neil didn't do any of that because he's absolutely, 100%, a dumb-ass. Andrew would probably come up with a more eloquent way to put it. Impetuous, or something.

Or he'd just call Neil an asshole and flip him off. 

The point is: Neil single-handedly proved all of Andrew's reservations about him true last night. If he hadn't been so inexperienced, he would've realized that fucking someone else to drown his feelings was a terrible idea before he went ahead and executed it with an almost alarming precision. But even as he tries to blame his _inexperience_ \- and God, does he hate that word now - he can't. Deep down, he knows it had nothing to do with inexperience, and everything to do with stubborn (slightly vengeful) bitterness. 

Dan once called Neil's extreme avoidance of his emotions _se_ _lf-sabotage_ , and after last night, that sounds about right. He'd purposefully used sex to distract himself from actually dealing with his feelings of inadequacy. Introspection hasn't even been his strong suit, but he really seemed to be trying for some kind of record for repression lately. Not for the first time, Neil wonders what the fuck is wrong with himself. He wants to erase the past day - the past two months, really - or at least smack himself upside the head once or twice before he plunges headfirst into terrible decisions. 

He wants to tell himself that nothing has really changed. It's not like Andrew was his Dom, or had any right to tell Neil not to scene with another Dom. But if Neil actually believed that, he wouldn't feel so sick at the thought of Andrew finding out what happened last night. Before, Neil was only inexperienced; once Andrew finds out about Roland, Neil will be a liability, a mistake.

Really, he knows what has to happen next. He has to talk to Andrew about Roland before someone else does, because he would rather be the one to explain his actions. Even if it means losing Andrew's respect, even if it means killing any chance of being Andrew's sub, Neil can do this one thing right. He can learn from this colossal fuck up, and next time he meets a Dom that he's interested in, he'll communicate better. He'll even make a list of pros and cons or shake a magic 8 ball or have Thea make him one of those folded paper fortune teller thingies. He'll stop using sex as an experiment or distraction. Not that he knows what other people use sex for, or what the healthy use for sex even is, but he knows it isn't _this._

At the very least, he won't say someone else's name during sex. He can commit to that much.

With any luck - assuming there is a next time - he'll be able to put the brakes on his insecurities before they turn into a sick kind of self-fulfilling prophesy. Because that's what he's done with Andrew, isn't it? Andrew rejected him, and Neil couldn't handle it. It's why he never called Andrew back after that missed call. It's why he went to Roland's instead. It's why he didn't ask Thea or Jean for advice, because they would've told him to cool off for a while, wait a few days and see how he feels about the whole situation before rushing into a decision that can't be reversed. 

Instead, he acted out so he doesn't have to wonder which fundamental quality about himself is so insufferable that Andrew outright rejected him. He doesn't have the energy to figure out why Andrew's rejection hurt so much, but every time he remembers sitting on the couch in the VIP room at Eden's, he feels the ghost of his father hovering in Andrew's silences. Neil can still picture his father's impassive stare, as if he were indifferent to whether his son lived or died, often leaning more towards the latter for the sole benefit of not having to deal with him anymore. He doesn't want to admit it, but he definitely saw a reflection of that indifference in Andrew's face on Halloween. 

It's fucked up. 

And it's also the exact reason that Neil started coming to Eden's in the first place. Kevin had been right about one thing: Neil was fragile. His ghosts were palpable, living things that felt more real than not. He hoped that finding a Dom would solve some -if not all - of his problems, so he could hand off all of his issues to someone stronger than him. All he'd ever wanted was someone that wouldn't make fun of him for not knowing how to play Monopoly, someone who wouldn't ask him how he'd survived so long without seeing the Lion King or ask how he expected to graduate college if he still got panic attacks every so often when he went grocery shopping. He wanted someone to take care of him and make everything okay again, to tell him life didn't have to be so hard.

Someone to finally show him that he wasn't fucked up or unlovable. 

He wanted the security of knowing his Dom had his back no matter what, that despite his secrets and lies and checkered past, he'd be accepted. That he deserved to be spoiled.

All he wanted was for Andrew to look at him like he mattered, like he did that first night: not focusing on his scars, but not avoiding them like most people did. Just seeing Neil and wordlessly accepting him with a kind of ease and recognition that Neil had never experienced before. He thought that meant Andrew could handle him. 

But he's waking up alone on a Saturday afternoon, not hungover but wishing he was. At least then he would have something to blame the fragile feeling in chest on, but he'd been perfectly sober last night. Which is very depressing.

He uses that as an impetus to stumble out of bed, once again avoiding the real issues at hand. 

As usual, Kevin is on the couch with some documentary playing in the background. And Kevin, being Kevin, misses nothing. After watching Neil leave last night and slink back in well past two AM, and he silently raises an eyebrow in judgement when Neil winces as he sits on the couch next to Kevin. As if Kevin's some kind of amateur Sherlock Holmes when it comes to Neil’s sex life, it only takes a few seconds for him to figure out exactly what happened.

"You're fucked," Kevin deadpans.

It's a particularly unhelpful observation, seeing as there's no one else around to contribute to their conversation, and Neil is intimately aware of what he's done over the past 24 hours. He could argue with Kevin about the semantics of being fucked - just to be difficult - but then he realizes that it doesn't matter what interpretation of the phrase Kevin has gone for. He's right on all counts. Physically? Neil's fucked. Emotionally? Fucked. Socially? Fucked. 

"Yeah," Neil says. 

Thankfully, Kevin must see the misery on Neil's face, because he doesn't ask who or how or why. Instead, he says the single most glorious phrase Neil has heard all week: "We should get drunk tonight." 

There's no point to emptying their cabinets in search of anything even remotely alcoholic. They purposefully keep their apartment dry for Kevin's benefit. And although Neil is rarely affected by this, he's currently regretting past-Neil's mature decisions because it's making it hard to cope with past-Neil's _immature_ decisions. Usually, he'd value Kevin's health over having a convenient stash of Jose Cuervo on hand, but right now the latter would be much appreciated.

The right thing to do would be to use this as some kind of cosmic sign to handle his problems now instead of avoiding them by getting drunk, but he's earned one last night of irresponsibility. He might've destroyed his chances with Andrew last night, but last night wasn't just about Andrew. It was about Neil, experiencing his first BDSM scene, enjoying sex for the first time in what feels like forever (even if he spent the entire time thinking about someone else). It's a small win, but after spending so long wondering if he would actually enjoy scening with a partner due to his past less-than-stellar experiences with sex, it's one less fear for him to carry around. 

So he wants to dance with whoever he wants and drink way too much and be sloppy and not have to worry about how he's getting home in the morning. He wants to forget everything for a few hours and deal with the aftermath in the morning. It's not like his problems are going away; they'll still be there when he's ready to face them. When he's ready to admit that he still needs a Dom, but that Dom won't be Andrew. He's going to have to be okay with that eventually. And although he tried the same thing last night - tried to forget about Andrew using sex - he's fairly certain that getting black-out drunk will be far more effective at temporarily evicting Andrew from Neil's brain. 

But with nothing more potent than mouthwash in their apartment, he and Kevin can't exactly get drunk at home.

They stare at each other for a moment before Kevin asks, "Eden's?" 

It's either that or ransacking the nearest liquor store, so Neil shrugs and lets Kevin call Thea to get permission. 

Eden's is comfortable. Familiar. Sure, they might run into Andrew, but Neil won't do anything stupid - nothing worse than last night, at least. He can be polite and keep his mouth shut if they run across each other. Then, after Neil has had a couple of days to reflect on everything he's done, he can sit down with Andrew like an adult, apologize, and ask if they can still be friends. 

He's pleasantly surprised with how realistic that plan is. He's also _un_ pleasantly surprised by how much the thought of offering the _just friends_ solution makes his gut twist. 

Thea, who is forever the devil on Neil's shoulder, is all too willing to facilitate their plan. After a moderate amount of negotiation from Kevin, she agrees to be their designated driver on the condition that Neil is the only one getting blackout drunk (Kevin only protests this point mildly), and offers to pick them up at 8.

It isn't until Neil is shoved into the bathroom by Kevin to get dressed that he finally gets a good look at himself for the first time that day. He looks like shit - bags under his eyes, mouth twisted into a grimace, skin clammy. Then, when he avoids his reflection and tries to focus on getting out of his sweatpants, he sees the bruises. 

There are handprints on his hips where Roland's fingers had pressed into Neil's skin. His back is worse, and he admires the marks on his body as a shiver crawls down his spine. He doesn't care who made the marks. Right now, all that matters is the feeling of being owned, and Neil is heady with the realization that if anyone saw these marks, they would think he had been claimed. 

Which unfortunately means he can't wear a revealing outfit without advertising his Friday night sexcapades to Eden's entire clientele. 

A rough knock on the door startles Neil back to reality.

“Are you getting dressed in there or jerking off? Because Thea’s going to be here in, like, two minutes," Kevin shouts, and Neil stares at the bundle of clothes sitting on the sink. 

He only let Kevin pick his outfit because Kevin has some kind of mothering instinct that makes him try and make Neil more homely looking. The first time Neil had worn thigh-high stockings to Eden's, Kevin had just about had an aneurysm and tried to convince Neil that sweatpants were a more practical choice for the fall weather. Today, Neil hoped Kevin's over-clothe-Neil gene would take away some of his sex appeal so Doms would leave him alone. And, after seeing the bruises on his back and hips, the extra coverage is needed. 

"I just need a second," Neil shouts back, picking at the clothes Kevin has put together for him.

They're presentable, if a little conservative for his usual tastes: a navy blue tank top, a pair of black shorts that barely cover Neil’s ass, a set of ruffled white socks, and a couple of hair clips - tiny pale, plastic moons. 

Neil has a fledgling reputation to uphold as a sub who pay meticulous attention to his appearance. Even if things don't work out with Andrew, he doesn't want everyone at Eden's to start thinking he's gotten sloppy. He'll want to scene again with a Dom eventually, and no matter what Kevin says, Neil is not going to find a Dom walking around Wal-Mart. The least he can do is look pretty, even when he feels like shit. 

But when all is said and done, Neil's bruises are completely covered by the outfit, his ass looks delectable (but not profane), and he doesn't even care that the darker colors wash him out. He feels like he's part of the night sky, a star made to shine, and his mood is already improving. 

He opens the bathroom door with the hair clips in one hand and a forlorn look directed at Kevin. "Help me?" 

“Sit,” Kevin says, directing him to the floor in front of the couch. "You're making us late."

Neil takes his place crossed-legged between Kevin’s knees. Kevin works on Neil’s hair with a kind of gentle efficiency, twisting it back and clipping each section away from his forehead with the little moon clips before pinching Neil’s ear and shoving him to get up.

"You're done. Go make sure it's all good so we can leave.” 

Neil gets up slowly, and when he goes to the bathroom to check his reflection, he’s pleasantly surprised. He never really thought Kevin had any fashion sense, considering that Thea usually has to _very specifically_ tell Kevin what to wear, and Kevin has often gotten confused with her instructions and feigned colorblindness, ending up in a purple collar instead of a navy one, or a white shirt instead of a yellow one. Looking at the outfit Kevin’s put together for him, though, Neil can’t help but wonder if Kevin’s been bratting on purpose this whole time, because his sense of color and style is impeccable. 

"It looks nice," Neil says softly when he sees his reflection in the mirror by their front door.

"Oh - before we leave. One last thing," Kevin says. He slips one of Neil's chokers out of his pocket - a navy velvet one, edged with white lace ruffles - and hands it to Neil. "It's your signature. Can't go without one tonight, right?" 

For a moment, Neil feels like crying. Kevin's not supposed to know that Neil has a signature look. The urge passes quickly enough, though, as Kevin wraps the choker around Neil's neck and fastens it in place. He tugs on it once to make sure it's going to stay put all night, and Neil is left feeling overly sentimental and a little guilty that he doesn't know anything that personal about Kevin, like he's been a bad friend somehow. 

"Seriously," Neil says softly. "Thanks. For everything."

Kevin ruffles Neil's hair softly with a smile. "Don't you dare fucking cry. We've already made Thea wait long enough."

\---

They end up at Eden’s early, and Neil takes the observer band from Jean instead of the participant one. It doesn't go unnoticed.

“You good?” Jean asks with a frown, stopping Neil gently with a hand on his shoulder. It's the kind of gesture that reminds Neil of how painfully alone he is right now, how painfully happy Jean and Jeremy are together.

“I’m fine,” Neil mumbles as Kevin chooses his own bands. 

“He’s been moping all week,” Kevin clarifies, not mentioning any of Neil's activities from last night. "Nothing a couple of drinks can't fix."

“Is this about Andrew?” Jean asks, and Neil’s gut reaction is to blame Roland for telling his secret. Then he remembers that he’d gotten properly wasted on Halloween after his discussion with Andrew and spilled pretty much everything to Jeremy, who probably relayed everything to Jean afterwards.

Whatever. It doesn't matter what Jean thinks he knows, because in a matter of days, Andrew will be nothing but a memory of a mistake that Neil can't take back. 

“No,” Neil says petulantly. It’s _not_ about Andrew. Sometimes a boy just wants to get fucked. Or cry. Or get drunk. He hasn't decided which would feel better right now, but the point is he can do any of those things without blaming it on Andrew. 

“Cheer up, pretty boy,” Jean says, pinching Neil’s cheek gently. “There are other Doms that’ll be thrilled to play with you when you’re ready.”

Neil has to bite back his disappointment when he nods, unwilling to tell Jean he doesn’t _want_ other Doms to play with yet. He’s half considering swapping his observer band for a participant one just to cause chaos _(bad, bad_ _idea,_ he tells himself) when Kevin drags him inside. 

As usual, Eden’s is dimly lit. Kevin takes him straight to the bar and starts them off with a few shots while Thea finishes parking outside. Roland serves them, because the universe isn’t quite done fucking with Neil yet, and a Dom approaches Neil before Roland has even started pouring their drinks. Neil doesn’t even bother to tell the Dom he's not interested. He just holds up his orange observer wristband with a dead-behind-the-eyes expression as he takes his shot straight out of Roland's hand and throws it back. 

Of course, on the only night Neil wants to be left alone, he gets nothing but attention.

After the third Dom has propositioned him unsuccessfully, Neil orders a handful of shots and lines them up as one of the club staff starts to clean off the stage floor. 

“I didn’t realize there was a show tonight,” Neil says to no on in particular before taking his second shot. 

Kevin shrugs, tapping his empty shot glass on the bar while Roland pours another straight into his empty glass.

“I thought you knew,” Roland says with a twisted grimace, pointing to the sign behind him that they had somehow missed with a name written in large block letters: _ANDREW + THEO._

Neil has half a mind to leave immediately. He'd known running into Andrew was a possibility. But seeing Andrew with another sub - a more _experienced_ sub - was not part of the agenda for tonight when he agreed to come to Eden's and get blackout drunk and have a good time. He throws back a third shot, followed shortly by a fourth after Roland gives him a concerned look. He's about to take his fifth when Thea wraps an arm around his shoulder and rests a hand on his wrist.

"Hun, slow down," she says calmly. "I know you're here to get drunk but good god _damn_. We're gonna be here a while, right?" 

Neil sucks on bottom lip, trying to remind himself that _this is fine._ Not ideal, but when has his life ever been easy? 

"Right," Neil agrees, setting his shot back on the bar. Roland visibly relaxes, and Kevin even lets out a sigh.

"So what is this about?" Thea asks, pushing Neil's shots away until they're not within his reach anymore. "You can resume drinking once you've eaten something. Or at least put some time between you and the ungodly amount of vodka you basically just shotgunned." 

"It's nothing,” Neil says. 

He could leave. If he told them he has the stomach flu, he wouldn't even have to see Andrew. But then Kevin will want to make sure he has soup and ginger ale and crackers. He could say he forgot about a last minute assignment, but his coursework has never, _ever_ been due on a Saturday and Kevin will smell the lie. And Neil's never had a homework emergency in his life so it's not exactly plausible that he'd suddenly start caring about his classes now. He could tell Thea the truth about Andrew and ask her to distract Kevin from Neil’s unexplained disappearance, but if Thea doesn’t agree, then the cat’s out of the bag. 

"Nothing is a funny way to say Andrew Minyard," Thea says, drinking one of Neil's shots. 

"Why does everyone keep acting like he's the center of the universe? We talked like, twice. He's nobody." 

"Right," Thea agrees. "A nobody who invites you to a private room and spends two hours afterwards ranting at poor Jean and Jeremy about how you're such a little shit. A nobody who usually doesn't have more than two words to say, and those words are usually _goodbye._ Or is that one word? Whatever. You're both so _cute_ when you're in denial." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Neil says, but can't help the flush that spreads across his face. He doesn't want to focus on how Andrew talked about him with Jean and Jeremy. For _two hours._

"Sure you don't," Thea says. "So are we going to stay for his scene or what?" 

She's being genuine, Neil realizes. A cold wave of guilt washes over him for thinking he'd have to lie and come up with an excuse to get out of there. He should've realized that Thea and Kevin wouldn't care if he had to leave, that neither of them would ever hold it against him. Sure, they'd give him shit, but they wouldn't hesitate to have his back; they never hesitated in the past. And it's that realization that makes him want to stay, if only for his friends who don't deserve to have to drag his sorry ass all over town because of a pathetic crush.

"I'll be fine," Neil says. "Really. I mean it." 

Kevin rolls his eyes. "You say that every time."

"I'm serious," Neil insists. 

"We'll get a booth, then," Thea says, dragging Kevin away from the bar. "Come find us when you're done!" 

And she winks at him. For a few seconds, Neil thinks she means _come find us when you're done getting drunk_ , but not two seconds after Thea and Kevin disappear, Jeremy materializes at the bar next to Neil. As though they're part of a knock-off Shakespearean drama.

“Neil, _baaaaaaby,”_ Jeremy says as he pats Neil's thighs, wordlessly asking for permission to sit on Neil’s lap. “What’s got you down?” 

Neil would never allow anyone else to sit on his lap, but he and Jeremy have spent enough time at Eden's together, watching scenes and critiquing outfits and giggling to each other, that it's routine for Neil to let Jeremy climb onto his lap. Even though Jeremy's almost a foot taller than him, Neil lets him curl up against his chest, content to accept Jeremy's casual affection. He'd never admit it to anyone, but for as long as Neil can remember, no one has ever hugged him or patted his back or caressed his hair or poked his cheeks or bumped his shoulder or held his hand or danced with him like Jeremy does. Like it's easy. Like it's no big deal to use touch as a way to express happiness or excitement or worry or caring. It's always undemanding. Friendly.

It always makes Neil feel safe. 

“Who says I’m down?” Neil retorts. When he realizes how defensive he sounds, he tries to look apologetic.

“No one,” Jeremy softens his tone, adjusting one of Neil's hair clips while he talks. Another casually fond touch. “You just look, uh, kind of miserable?” 

He sighs as Jeremy rubs little circles in his back, giving the only explanation that feels adequate.

“It's just been a bad week."

"You wanna talk about it?" Jeremy asks, glancing at the stage as the lights start to dim and a spotlight illuminates the empty center area. 

"Not right now," Neil says as he catches sight of what must be Andrew’s sub across the bar, being led on a leather leash by none other than Andrew himself. 

Except the sub is completely naked. 

“Shit,” Jeremy says under his breath, burying his face in Neil’s chest. “Should we be here for this? You said -"

"It's fine," Neil cuts in. "I'm fine." 

Jeremy doesn't look convinced, but Neil plasters on a neutral face. 

"Well, Andrew always takes things too far for my tastes," Jeremy says too casually. "His scenes are too intense. I can hardly watch them.” 

There’s no diplomatic way to tell Jeremy that Neil would give his right arm to have Andrew Dom him like this in front of a room full of people, so he makes the smart decision and keeps his mouth shut. 

He’s mesmerized as he watches Andrew bind his sub slowly with nylon rope, taking his time to tie wrist to ankle while his sub kneels on the stage floor. Andrew checks the knots, says something in a low voice in his sub’s ear, inaudible to the audience, and the sub’s lips move soundlessly in response. Andrew nods once in reply and then stands, unclipping his sub’s leather leash. He runs a hand over his sub’s back, who shivers in reply but otherwise stays frozen in place, eyes glued to the floor. Before Neil can blink twice, Andrew uses that hand to shove his sub to the ground, face pressed against the floor and hands straining against the restraints. The result is Andrew’s sub, ass up, arms tied helplessly to his ankles, and thighs beautifully exposed. 

“Fuck,” Jeremy says, peeking out from behind the cover of Neil’s chest before tucking back out of sight. He adds, “Tell me when it’s over," but he keeps sneaking peeks every few seconds anyway. 

Neil is about to ask what Andrew’s scene is supposed to be, since there are no whips or harnesses or ropes or toys on the stage, when Andrew unbuckles his belt and snakes it off slowly. He snaps it twice, and his sub doesn’t flinch at the sound, staying perfectly still with his face pressed against the floor. Neil can’t see the sub's expression since he’s facing the other way, but he imagines the sub is as blissed out as Neil feels right now. Andrew announces he’ll do ten lashes, and then proceeds to do just that. Neil sits, trance-like, as he watches Andrew’s arm rise and fall, leaving marks across his sub’s thighs with each blow. Each time leather connects with the sub's skin, Neil can almost feel the paddle against his back from the night before, that dull ache, bone-deep and heavy as he felt the pain sinking into his very soul. 

Before, he'd watched scenes at Eden's with curiosity and excitement and a little bit of jealousy. Tonight, his envy is raw. He wants Andrew, but he also doesn't know how the sub takes it so well. He barely flinches with the first blows, as though his body has sunk into acceptance and trust as he lets his Dom take control. It's remarkable. What's more is the sub keeps his mouth shut the entire time, not saying a word, and definitely not calling out someone else's name in the middle of a scene. 

Andrew stops after five strikes of the belt and leans down to mumble something in his sub's ear, who flashes a hand signal in response.

The final five strikes come in slow succession, each louder than the last as flesh meets leather in the otherwise quiet club. At ten, Andrew steps back and checks with his nearly-silent sub again. There's a different hand signal this time, but the quick flash of fingers is the only movement that comes from the sub, who otherwise stays bound wrist-to-ankle with his face and chest still pressed against the stage floor.

“For ten blows, the slut has earned ten cocks,” Andrew announces to the club before stepping to the side, folding his arms across his chest. 

Neil is immediately equal parts disappointed and encouraged that Andrew isn't the first taker. On one hand, he'd love any excuse to see Andrew's cock. On the other hand, watching Andrew fuck someone else might be too much to handle. As the first Dom comes out of the crowd, Neil almost forgets about the rules for public sex with multiple partners at Eden's. For a minute, Neil feels like he could get out of his seat and join the show. 

He knows he can't, of course: all participants have to sign up beforehand so the Dom has a chance to run through the list and provide any limits and safe words in advance of the scene. Plus, everyone participating has to use protection, and in addition to the Dom stopping scenes, the Dungeon Monitor has the right to step in and stop things at any time, for any reason. 

He's just never had a reason to be interested in public sex, or sex with multiple partners, but suddenly it's not such a foreign idea when Andrew is orchestrating it. As the first Dom approaches Andrew's sub, he looks to Andrew for permission, and Andrew nods once. The man trails his hand across the red welts forming on the sub’s thighs before slipping his fingers inside of the sub, who's clearly been prepped moderately before coming in stage. Still, the Dom takes his time opening him up, one hand rubbing gently across his back while he stretches him. After he's satisfied that the sub is ready, the Dom unzips his pants and rolls on a condom before thrusting into Andrew’s sub without warning, the snap of his hips vicious as he finally fucks the sub. It must take at least a few minutes before he finishes pulls out, but Neil feels like it's only a matter of seconds. He's so absorbed in the sound of flesh against flesh, the way the sub remains completely silent and passive, the way Andrew's gaze never wavers from the scene in front of him. 

The entire thing feels extraordinarily intimate despite the inherent publicity of the scene. 

The second taker is a Dom Neil’s seen before, who is much more gentle compared to the first. Although Andrew’s sub is still pressed into the ground, hands bound at his ankles, he says nothing, moves not an inch. The second Dom only kneads his ass before slipping into him slowly, not bothering to stretch him when he's been freshly fucked. When he's done, the third and fourth takers are a pair Neil doesn’t recognize - he assumes they're a Dom and sub pair, based on the collar one is wearing. They approach at the same time and look to Andrew for permission to start. Andrew steps forward and checks in quietly with his sub, who gives the same hand signal as before, and Andrew nods at the pair before stepping back, still watching closely.

They take Andrew’s sub together, the Dom pushing himself inside first before calling his own sub over to join. Both of their cocks, slick with lube and made rubbery from the condoms, messily slide into Andrew’s sub. It’s sloppy and rough and too uncoordinated to actually get any of them off, but they're seemingly satisfied after just a few thrusts, and Andrew doesn't stop them from conceding the rest of their time. 

If math wasn't his major, Neil was sure he'd have lost count by now. But he's clinging to the last vestiges of self-control and vaguely recognizes that they're not even halfway through yet. Six more to go. He shivers at the sight of the sub's hole, now gaping open slightly and shining with lube as he waits for the fifth participant to come forward. 

When the next man steps up to fuck into Andrew’s sub in short, heavy thrusts, Neil can’t help himself. Behind the sub, Andrew himself is visibly aroused on stage, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at the scene in front of him, and Neil wants nothing more than to etch that image into his brain forever. That's all it takes for him to get hard, with Jeremy still draped across his lap. 

“If only Kevin could see you now,” Jeremy says, patting Neil's head.

Neil flushes, trying to focus on anything but Andrew and the stage while Jeremy is still in his lap, but his gaze keeps falling to the sub, tied and helpless and getting fucked over and over again by strangers. Before he can apologize, Jeremy laughs.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like you're the only one," Jeremy says. "Honestly? If Jean wasn't working, he'd probably be up there himself."

Neil doesn't know how tactful it is to ask about Jean and Jeremy's seemingly flexible relationship. It's not like he's in any place to judge them himself, but he's curious how it works for them. Before he knew Jean and Jeremy, he'd never had an interest in being shared. He still doesn't want to be shared, but he never used to get turned on by it before, so this is new to him. His focus has always been feeling controlled and protected and claimed, which he assumed was mutually exclusive with being shared. He couldn't reconcile those two things in his head until now.

But watching the sub on stage put all of his trust into Andrew is attractive. _Andrew_ is the one running the scene, even if he’s not the one doing the fucking. As another Dom comes forward - number eight, maybe? - Neil decides that this version of Andrew is the version he loves the most: fiercely possessive and full of a very sharp kind of caution, tense to the point of vigilance as he watches the scene unfold. This version of Andrew isn't softened at the edges. This is the Andrew that told Neil to leave on Halloween.

Every breath the sub takes is observed, inventoried, monitored by Andrew. He couldn't be more connected to his sub if he was balls-deep inside of him, frankly, and that's a thought that really turns Neil on. He’s always thought that sharing meant breaking the bond between sub and Dom, but he's willing to admit he was wrong after seeing this scene.

Yet that realization it makes Neil's heart sink, because as much as he likes watching this scene, he knows he could never be fucked like this. He’s never trusted anyone easily. He always knew that finding just one person that he could trust and submit to would be nearly impossible, so letting himself be fucked in public by complete strangers is unfeasible. It's one more way he and Andrew would never work out - Andrew clearly enjoys this kind of public scene, and Neil could never give that to him. 

He swears there's something like pride in Andrew's eyes when he looks at his sub after the tenth man steps forward for his turn. Andrew's sub flashes a hand signal that has Andrew stepping forward. The scene pauses immediately, and Andrew gently runs his hand across his sub’s back as the man who was fucking into him stops mid-thrust. Andrew talks to his sub, but the low music playing drowns out whatever is being said. Eventually, the sub gives a different signal, and Andrew pats his back once before stepping back, and the scene resumes. 

That kind of wordless intimacy and trust is something Neil has always wanted. It's hard to watch the person he wants share that kind with someone else, so he lets his head fall forward until his nose is buried in Jeremy's neck. 

"Tell me when it's over," he says, sparing himself from the final minutes of agony. He still hears the man's groans, though, and that's almost just as bad. 

Once the lights start to come back on and Jeremy lets him know it's over, Neil blinks owlishly up at the stage. Andrew is already leading his sub, now unbound and clothed in an oversized shirt, towards the private rooms. Right before Andrew disappears into the shadows completely, Neil swears Andrew looks over his shoulder, directly at the spot he and Jeremy are sitting. He and Andrew make eye contact, or maybe they don't, because it's dark and there's no reason Andrew would be looking for him. 

“How’s it going with you two, by the way?” Jeremy asks.

“What?” 

“You and Andrew.”

“Oh,” Neil says, wishing Jeremy had forgotten about Halloween. Honestly, it's obvious that Andrew has a sub that isn't Neil, and Neil has nobody, so he shrugs. “He said he wasn’t interested.” 

Jeremy frowns, sipping at a drink Neil hadn’t seen him order. 

"That means you're not interested, either?" Jeremy asks. 

Neil shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. He isn't, end of story." 

“I get why you'd say that, except ... look, I know this might not seem like a big deal, but Andrew doesn't open up easily to anyone,” Jeremy says. “If you're asking _my_ opinion -"

"I'm not," Neil interrupts.

"Okay, but if you _were,_ then I'd tell you not to give up on him so easily." 

"It doesn't work like that," Neil says. 

Jeremy isn't deterred at all. " _Okay,_ but -" 

Neil doesn't think. He's had a few drinks, he's tired, he's feeling pretty pathetic and lonely and he just says it. "I asked Roland to fuck me."

That stops Jeremy. He blinks a few times at Neil, waiting for a punchline that isn't coming. After a few moments, he slowly says, "You're serious." 

"Yeah, serious enough to let him Dom me," Neil says with a shrug. He tries to act like it's not a big deal, but it feels very much like a big deal admitting it aloud. He hasn't even told Kevin it was Roland who fucked him, which makes him feel weird about the whole thing; Kevin is usually the first to know everything in Neil's life. The fact that he's spilling his guts to Jeremy instead doesn't sit well with him. "Whatever. My point is Andrew isn't interested, and neither am I. I'm moving on."

"Moving on," Jeremy repeats, then asks, "That's moving on?" 

Neil wants to tell him to shut up, because he's allowed to move on however he damn well pleases, but he also realizes he got hard while watching Andrew's scene. The evidence isn't currently in his favor. 

"I'm trying to," Neil amends. "I want to." 

"Wanting something doesn't make it real," Jeremy says. 

Neil rolls his eyes, all too painfully aware of the irony of that statement. If it was as easy as wanting Andrew, Neil would already have exactly what he wanted. But it's not enough. Andrew has to want him back, and he doesn't, and Neil is tired of being reminded of this fact. He's also a little drunk? 

Yes, he's definitely a little drunk.

"We're taking bets," Jeremy explains while Neil frowns at nothing in particular. "Jean thinks that Andrew’s going to make you his bitch for a couple of weeks and then move on, because that’s what he always does. I told Jean if Andrew isn’t offering to make you his sub properly - collared and claimed and spoiled - then you won’t take it. Which one of us is right?” 

“You’re both wrong,” Neil huffs. “I said he's not interested. End of story.”

He's definitely repeating himself now, but there's nothing else to be said about Andrew and Neil is ready to talk about literally anything else. Jeremy doesn’t reply, but brightens as he looks behind Neil, slipping off of his lap quickly. 

“Speak of the devil,” Jeremy mutters as he pats Neil's shoulder once before disappearing into the crowd. 

“Neil,” a cold voice says, and Neil can hear the scowl in Andrew's voice before he even turns around. In a matter of seconds, Jeremy is nowhere to be found, and Neil marvels at his ability to get lost in the crowd so quickly. Especially considering that Jeremy is _tall._

He doesn’t acknowledge Andrew's half-assed attempt at a greeting, choosing to instead quickly down the rest of the drink that Jeremy abandoned. Andrew has made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in Neil, so Neil doesn’t see any reason to engage in conversation with him. Things have changed since the last time they spoke. There was that missed call from Andrew that neither of them bothered to follow up on. And of course there's Roland. Which definitely outweighs Andrew's stupid phone call.

But Neil isn't here to dwell on Roland or Andrew. He's supposed to hold onto those particular secrets for a later date. 

That doesn't stop him from sneaking glances at Andrew as he sits next to Neil at the bar, trying to merge this version of Andrew with the version of Andrew in Roland's photo from last night - soft and smiley. 

It can't be a real picture. There's no world where this Andrew and that Andrew can both exist. Then again, most people wouldn't look at Neil and realize he's literally killed a man before. 

He just wishes he could see Andrew smile, that's all. For reference. It takes an extraordinary amount of self control for Neil to stop himself from reaching out and sticking his thumbs into the corners of Andrew's mouth and physically lifting his face into a smile. 

“Don’t believe everything Jeremy tells you,” Andrew says. He accentuates his words by propping his boots on the rung of Neil’s bar stool as if he owns the place, and Neil shifts in his seat, kicking Andrew’s boots off.

“Asshole,” Neil spits out, focusing on the bitter taste of the word instead of the way his heart is racing. "Don't tell me what to believe." 

He keeps staring Andrew, searching his face for clues as Andrew stares right back at him. He's probably being a huge fucking creep right now, but can't bring himself to stop. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow at him, putting his boots right back on Neil's bar stool as he flags down Roland and orders a glass of scotch. Roland has zero reaction to seeing Andrew next to Neil, which makes Neil let out a sigh of relief. Neil doesn’t kick Andrew’s feet off the second time. If anything, Andrew’s almost possessive gesture makes Neil’s head spin. It doesn't mean anything, and Andrew doesn’t own him, but Neil notices the way the rest of the Doms keep a certain distance when Andrew’s around. Even the subs clear out of the way. Hell, even Jeremy ran off. Although Neil suspects that’s because he has plans to force Neil and Andrew together by sheer power of will. Neil doesn’t want to kill Jeremy’s hopes, but he doesn't have high hopes based on Andrew's very pained expression right now. 

“You’re a real headache,” Andrew grits out finally, after Neil has remained silent for several long minutes. 

Neil almost sputters in indignation, managing to catch himself at the last second.

“God, you really seem to have a problem keeping your opinions to yourself," he tells Andrew. "What happened to Mr. I'm-not-interested? Mr. I-don't-play-games? I’m not your sub. Not your problem, not your headache. Got it?” 

There’s a dangerous glint to Andrew’s eye, like he’s about to tell Neil to show him some goddamn respect, but he stays perfectly still and silent. Neil grins as he realizes Andrew is holding himself back precisely _because_ Neil isn’t his sub; Andrew has no right to ask Neil to apologize or tell Neil to watch his attitude. 

“Do I piss you off that much?” Neil asks, kicking his heels in the air as he nudges Andrew’s boots with his sneakers, scuffing the leather a little. “Does _this_ piss you off? You finally met a sub who isn’t afraid to tell you to fuck off and you don’t even have the balls to tell me to shut up, do you?” 

Andrew growls. He fucking _growls,_ the sound animalistic and feral, and Neil tries not to flush at the sound, at the proximity of Andrew’s knees to his own, almost pressed into each other as the crowd seethes behind them. Heat crawls up his spine as Andrew glares at him, arousal pooling in his body without so much as a single touch between them. 

“Why don’t you tell me to stop,” Neil suggests as he blinks innocently at Andrew, who is very clearly losing his grip on his self-control.

Neil _loves_ this. He reaches forward and plucks the glass straight out of Andrew’s hand, raises it in a silent salute, sips from it. And if looks could kill, Neil would absolutely be dead right now. But Andrew still says nothing. 

“Oh, wait,” Neil says, fueled by too much alcohol and not enough common sense. “You _can’t_ tell me to stop, can you? Because I’m _not_. _Your_. _Sub_.” 

“You think your current attitude is going to change that?” Andrew finally asks, his voice wrecked by his barely-restrained temper. 

Neil shrugs, shifting back on his stool until he’s out of Andrew’s reach before he downs the rest of Andrew’s drink in a single gulp, holding up one finger to silence Andrew while he does so. Once he's finished, he slams the empty glass on the bar. The scotch tastes miserable and burns going down, but Neil will more than willingly endure it, if only to make Andrew seethe. 

“Attitude has nothing to do with it, remember?"Neil explains as he stands, grateful that Andrew’s drink hasn’t hit him yet. He isn’t exactly a lightweight, but he knows he’ll be unsteady on his feet soon enough after basically chugging Andrew's drink. “You said it’s about experience. Which, last time I checked, doesn’t happen overnight." His eyes flicker to Roland, traitorously, and he flushes. "Or does it?" 

Fuck. He's fucking fucked it up. Roland freezes behind the bar, and Neil realizes belatedly he never asked how Roland would prefer to handle the whole Andrew situation. Roland has been Andrew's friend far longer than Neil has been hanging around Eden's, so it isn't fair for Neil to burn their friendship down because he's petty and lonely and drunk. 

"Hypothetically, of course," Neil adds quickly, backtracking.

"Hypothetically," Andrew says in a quiet voice, "It would be none of my business. You can fuck whoever you want." 

"You're giving me permission?" Neil asks.

Andrew glares at Neil with a look that says _you know damn well you don't need my permission._

"Fine," Neil huffs, dragging his finger along the rim of Andrew’s empty glass, staring him straight in the eyes. "Not permission. But you'd be okay with that? Me getting fucked by other Doms that you might know?" 

Andrew stays perfectly still, watching Neil with a kind of intense loathing that cuts though his starting-to-feel-really-drunk-now buzz. He should leave before he says something overly incriminating.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Andrew asks. It isn't the response Neil expected. A straight-up _fuck off_ was what he was aiming for - a quick excuse to get him out of this dumpster-fire of a conversation before he runs his mouth and admits everything. 

"That's not an answer," Neil says. _Or is it?,_ a small voice whispers in his ear. 

"Yes," Andrew says. It's the most constipated, awful-sounding _yes_ Neil's ever heard, but it's a yes all the same. "I'd be fine with it."

Neil is positive that this conversation in particular is payback for the thousands of times that he told Kevin and Thea and Dan that he was fine when he was obviously _not fine,_ because if there's one thing Neil knows, it's how to spot a liar. And Andrew is lying right now; he's definitely _not_ okay with Neil being fucked by other Doms.

The realization is not as comforting as Neil thought it would be. 

"Real convincing," Neil says with a sneer that's half-directed at Andrew, half-directed at his own sorry self.

"Anyway, isn't it a little late to be asking for permission?" Andrew asks, glancing down at Neil's tank top and shorts as if he can see exactly where the bruises are littered across Neil's body. 

Neil flushes, his head pounding as his panicked thoughts tumble through his mind. It's a bad idea to have a panic attack when he's drunk, but it's not like he can shut down the foreboding sense of doom leeching into his entire body, like he's already fucked up. Like he's holding a loaded gun but forgotten how to shoot. Before he can make the situation worse, he needs to leave. 

"Thanks for the drink, I guess," he mumbles. "Wish I could say the same about the conversation.” 

He turns to leave and immediately stumbles on his own feet. A firm hand barely stops him from falling flat on his face. 

"I mean it," Andrew says as he pulls Neil upright. "You deserve -" he pauses, then restarts. "If someone wants to scene with you, that's your decision. Not mine." 

Andrew's hand on his arm feels heavy and warm, and it takes a considerable amount of concentration for Neil to focus on the words Andrew is saying. 

"I deserve _what?"_ Neil asks. 

If it had been any other night, or any other Dom, Neil would've left already. But it's Andrew, and despite the buzz he's feeling, Neil can clearly see the distress on Andrew's face. His discussion with Roland is knocking about inside his head: _he doesn't think he deserves better. You're good for him._

Neil shakes out of Andrew's grip, and the word vomit that comes out probably makes only a marginal amount of sense. "You know what? Don't give me that _you d_ _eserve better_ bullshit. Because I deserved better when my dad fucking _shot_ me. I deserved better when this -" Neil waves vaguely at the scars on his face "- happened. I didn't _deserve_ any of the shit that happened to me over the past twenty-one-fucking-years, but it still happened and it fucking sucked, so maybe you're allowed to let someone fucking care about you without having to find a reason to earn it, yeah? Because you'll never deserve this. And neither will I. But that doesn't mean we can't fucking make this work." 

This isn't about being Andrew's sub anymore. It's about two people who've been hurt so many times that trust feels like a fairy tale sold to naive children. It's about realizing that, yeah, they're both clearly fucked up, but that doesn't mean they can't be friends. Every time they talk, Neil feels like Andrew understands exactly what he's trying to say, even when his words come out wrong. He feels like when he explains things to Andrew, he's explaining them to himself. Like they're both just as hopeless and confused by whatever it is they're feeling, and maybe Neil was wrong when he thought he wanted to have sex with Andrew. He still wants that - how could he not - but that isn't important. If Andrew doesn't want Neil to be his sub, Neil can live with that. He'd rather have Andrew as a friend than nothing at all. 

Maybe _this_ is whatever it is that both of them desperately need right now: understanding, forgiveness, empathy. 

But Neil can't bring himself to look at Andrew's face after emotionally stripping himself down, especially because there have been several long, silent moments since Neil stopped talking. He can't handle seeing pity or anger - or worse, apathy - in Andrew's expression right now. Not when he's drunk. So he does what he does best and turns away without another word, without looking back once. He practically runs across the room to find Kevin and Thea, who are settled comfortably into a booth, and he purposefully avoids looking at the bar where he and Andrew were sitting. Kevin watches him warily as Neil slides into the booth. Thea, on the other hand, just smirks. 

“What did you _do_?” Kevin hisses, as though Andrew can hear them from fifty feet away across a packed bar. 

“Nothing,” Neil says. 

“You’re a dirty liar,” Thea says. “Andrew looks like he’s going to kill someone. Should I go have a chat with him to make sure you don't end up swimming with the fishes?” 

"That's not _funny,"_ Kevin says, going a little pale, but Thea only laughs. Neil doesn't mind the mob jokes as much as Kevin does, and he leans across the table to fist-bump Thea.

"Good one," Neil offers with a weak grin. 

"I'm serious, though," Thea says. "What happened?" 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about." Neil balances his chin on his hands innocently, trying to act more confident than he feels now that the rush of adrenaline is fading. "Not a damned thing happened between us."

“How the _fuck_ didn’t I see this before?” Kevin mumbles into his drink miserably. Neil isn't sure if he's drunk, or if Kevin is, but clearly one of them isn't following the conversation at hand. All he knows is he isn't focused enough to figure out which one of them it is.

“You’re a little dense sometimes, Kev,” Thea says with a reassuring pat to his cheek, and Kevin blushes, shooting her a dirty glance. Her grin only widens. “Looks like someone wasn’t punished enough earlier.” 

“Ugh,” Neil groans, shielding his eyes from them. “Not in front of the kids.” 

“You’re not a kid,” Kevin complains. “You can vote and drive and drink and even rent a car." He frowns, and adds, "Or at least I think you can. And Jeremy said you got a hard-on watching Andrew’s sub get gang banged, so that whole innocent act isn't going to work anymore."

Neil shrugs, ignoring the fact that apparently Jeremy had already told them about on his reaction to Andrew's scene. Neil is quickly learning there are _zero_ secrets at Eden’s. 

“Since we’re on the topic of your enjoyment of all things BDSM apparently, when am I getting my money?” Kevin asks. “If tonight wasn’t _hard proof_ that I won the bet, I don’t know what is.” 

“How about a new bet?” Thea interjects before Neil can answer. Kevin’s eyes widen; Thea rarely bets on anything. “Forget the old one. Replace it with a bet specifically for Andrew and Neil.”

“Absolutely not,” Kevin says. “Don’t encourage their self-destructive behavior.”

“Isn't that a little hypocritical?” Thea says, nudging one of Kevin’s empty shot glasses towards him. “And anyway, I don’t think either of them need the encouragement.” 

She turns Kevin’s head with her hand until he’s staring straight across the bar at Andrew, who is still glaring at their table. Thea wiggles her fingers daintily at Andrew, who only continues to glare at them all, but focuses most of his venom on Neil.

“What’s the bet?” Neil asks. Another bet can only mean trouble, especially when the last one was so abysmal. He’s not exactly jumping at the chance to make an even stupider bet, but he’s also loath to give up the original $200 bet without hearing her out.

“Five hundred bucks says Andrew’s going to have you collared before Christmas,” Thea says. 

Kevin’s jaw drops, and he shakes his head. “No way. Andrew doesn’t like brats. He wants total submission, and Neil couldn't submit for more than ten minutes without permanently breaking something in his brain. He wouldn’t even know how to do it.”

The words sting a bit, yet another reminder that Neil’s not experienced enough or submissive enough for Andrew.

“Really?” Thea asks. “I think he can, given the right motivation. You of all people should know that.”

“Whatever,” Kevin says, his face flushing. “That’s not happening. Ever.” 

“Fine,” Thea says. “That's your bet. What about you, Neil?” 

“He won’t collar me,” Neil says after a pause. “He’s not interested. I’m not going to push it.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Neil?” Thea asks, reaching across the table to shove playfully at Neil’s shoulder. “Neil Josten is an asshole who doesn’t know when to quit. You’ve chosen _now_ to grow some kind of a conscience? No fun.” 

“Fine. You wanna know my bet?" Neil asks, stealing the last of Kevin's shots and tossing it back. "I think Andrew’s gonna run me over in his fucking Maserati before Christmas.”

Kevin makes a choked off sound, and Thea’s unimpressed face says she’s not amused. But Neil isn’t budging on this; he’s not going to lose this bet. And given what he just said to Andrew, things aren't looking good for the _collared by Christmas_ camp. 

"Fine. If you're going to be difficult, my money's on Andrew, Kevin's is on no one, and yours is on the fucking car," Thea says as she counts off their bets on her fingers. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to be so much richer in just a few weeks?" 

When Neil looks up at the bar again, Andrew is nowhere to be seen. 

Neil might be drunk and lonely and confused and _possibly_ horny, but he's sure about one thing: Thea is not going to make a fucking cent off of this bet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO - I am seriously so excited for the next two chapters! There's going to be more of Andrew's perspective and a lot of Jean + Jeremy's dynamic (ahem, with Neil). I know this fic isn't about focused on Jerejean but they're my absolute favorites, so any time I can write about them, I will shamelessly do it haha 
> 
> anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this installment of Neil + Andrew being idiots <3


	7. Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Andrew, this chapter is a mess. It could've probably been split into two parts, but hell, I'm not a very concise writer, so this behemoth was born??? If there are any errors it's because I've been editing this for what feels like forever and I can no longer read this objectively haha. 
> 
> Warnings/tags: This is heavy on the Andrew Angst (™). Involves references to childhood neglect/emotional abuse during his session with Bee, self-blame, reluctance to open up, fear of abandonment. Heavy drinking at the end + v*mit mention. 
> 
> And Jean uses his Sex Appeal to convince Jeremy to let them get Taco Bell. Not that anyone needs that tagged, per se, but honestly? I would make this entire chapter about them if this wasn't supposed to be about Andrew + Neil.

Andrew has four distinct kinds of nightmares.

Normal nightmares - not that they’re normal, exactly, because they’re more like night terrors that leave him gasping for breath, and sometimes he stays up as late as humanly possible until his eyes start slipping shut just to avoid them when it gets really bad - but they’re made of standard stuff. Just a bunch of old fears bubbling to the surface. Hands on his neck - that’s a common one. Or watching Aaron disappear into the Charleston airport without looking over his shoulder once. Sometimes it’s Nicky, all bloody in the face. Other times it’s simply the feeling of falling, sinking endlessly, that leaves him feeling sweaty and exhausted in the morning.

Then there are the Lady Macbeth nightmares, as Andrew likes to call them. Bee calls it GAD, or PTSD, or MDD or any of a half-dozen other acronyms that Andrew doesn’t bother learning the meaning of. But these are the nightmares that happen when he’s awake. When the lines of reality start bending in strange ways that he knows aren’t real, but still end up terrifying him. He’ll look down at his hands and they're covered in blood.

Or -

Well, he knows they’re not covered in blood - he’s not hallucinating, he doesn’t actually _see_ anything, and logically he knows there’s nothing there - but he imagines it. _What if_ they were covered in blood. _What if_ he isn’t as in control as he thinks. _What if_ he makes a mistake. _What if_ he breaks down again, in any of the hundreds of ways he’s broken down in the past: lashing out violently at himself, at his family, at strangers, at anyone who’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

And it’s not like this kind of Lady Mac-fucking-Beth nightmare is that far from reality; he knows what it looks like when he’s covered in blood. Someone else’s. His own. Doesn’t matter. It’s all too familiar. So maybe it’s wrong to call those _nightmares_ since they’re actually a fusion of past and present, memory and reality, that his stupid brain is pulling up on repeat. Maybe PTSD isn't so far off. Whatever. That’s not the point; Bee can call it whatever she wants. Andrew just wants it to stop. 

The third kind are the nightmares that feel like daydreams. They start with Andrew waking up in a bed next to Neil, sunshine warm and lazy across his skin. Blurry shadows linger beneath Andrew’s hand as he reaches across the duvet to trace the scars on Neil’s face. In these nightmares, his heart doesn’t hammer against his chest when Neil copies him, fingers ghosting over Andrew’s cheek in a mirror of that soft gesture. Where he doesn’t feel anything but quiet contentment. If he was any other person, those dreams would be his favorites. Those dreams should be his favorites. Not nightmares at all. 

But when he wakes up from those dreams, he wants to hit something. Break something. Himself, maybe. It just needs to hurt enough to distract him from everything he can’t have. Because that’s why those dreams are nightmares: he’ll never have that kind of blissful, unworried peace when he’s awake. He’ll never have that kind of relationship with anyone. Not Neil, that’s for sure. (The brat probably couldn’t even shut his mouth long enough to have a lazy morning like that). 

Impossible nightmares, that’s what he calls them. Painful in the enormity of experiences he will never have when he's awake, played out across a sleeping canvas. When he was younger, they featured a set of happy parents instead of Neil, and a backyard swing set instead of a bed. It's funny how much things change, and how much they stay the same.

But that’s only three types of nightmares: the bad, the terrible, and the ugly. 

There’s still a fourth kind.

“I dreamed I was back in California again last night,” Andrew tells Bee as soon as he’s settled in her office. It’s not the first time they’ve talked about his nightmares, but it’s the first time in a while that he’s had this particular one. “The Bakersfield house.” 

He says it as if she used to live there with him, as if she remembers what the Bakersfield house was like, even though Bee hasn’t left the goddamned state of South Carolina in her entire life. They’ve talked about Bakersfield enough over the years that Bee could probably draw the damn thing from memory: blue shutters, green lawn, brown dog. The American dream. 

Her response is predictable. “You haven’t talked about Bakersfield in a while. Why do you think it’s come up now?” 

Andrew doesn’t immediately have an answer, but that's why he pays her: to ask him the questions that he'd rather avoid. In the Bakersfield nightmare, it’s always a thousand fucking degrees out and his back is so soaked with sweat that his shirt sticks to his skin. An air conditioner hums in the distance while he sits on the front porch, watching the clouds float by above him as a cigarette burns down to the filter in his hand, untouched. 

“Neil,” Andrew tells her. It’s a one-word answer, which Bee usually chides him for, but it’s the only word that could possibly contain the multitude of reasons why he’s dreaming of Bakersfield now. 

“N-e-i-l,” Bee spells out as she writes Neil’s name in her notes. “We haven’t talked about him since … well, last week.” 

“Very funny,” Andrew deadpans, but she's the only one who could get away with a joke like that. A therapy joke. When Aaron tried it, Andrew left him at a Citgo station in Charlottesville and was halfway back to campus before Nicky forced Andrew to listen to Aaron's apology on speakerphone and turn around to get him. “I’m being serious. It’s his fault.” 

“His fault that you’re having that dream?” Bee asks. 

Andrew doesn’t say anything at first. Of course it isn’t Neil’s fault that Andrew’s fucked up in the head and has nightmares all the time. But it feels nice to blame something on Neil after his public scene at Eden’s last week - the scene that was supposed to get Neil to forget about Andrew. It was supposed to disgust Neil and show him how heartless a Dom Andrew could be. But Andrew had to give props to Neil for not being deterred in the slightest. No, it had been the opposite; Neil got drunk and basically shout-confessed his feelings to Andrew in a packed BDSM club. The kid had balls, Andrew could give him that much. 

He still doesn't quite understand how that plan backfired, since someone as tetchy as Neil surely should have found something objectionable in a gang-bang scene.

“I tried to tell him he deserved better,” Andrew says. Which is more or less the truth. Maybe less, if he thinks about it, but he doesn't want to think right now. Especially not about why he'd approached Neil in the first place after the scene, or the single most painful thing he'd heard Neil say before he realized Andrew was standing behind him: _I said he's not interested._ _End of story._

He especially doesn't want to think about what that means. 

Bee doesn’t prompt him through the silence. She’s used to the pauses between thoughts and sentences and ideas, as Andrew sorts through all of the noise in his brain. Eventually, he pulls out the conclusion he had been reaching for.

“Neil said I’d never deserve him, and that he doesn’t deserve me, and no one fucking deserves anyone because we’re all shit human beings.” Andrew is definitely paraphrasing, but that’s not as important as draining the poison that’s been fermenting in his mind since that conversation. “He said I was trying to earn the right to let someone care about me, which is - according to him - _impossible._ ”

Andrew doesn’t want to repeat the last sentence that Neil had shouted at him, already stumbling backwards into the crowd and unable to meet Andrew’s eyes: _that doesn’t mean we can’t fucking make this work._ It had stunned Andrew into silence. He knows if he told Bee any of that, she would immediately agree with stupid Neil and his stupid idealistic beliefs. 

“You say that with a lot of contempt,” Bee observes. 

“Because he’s wrong.” He appreciates the fact that Bee isn’t questioning his recounting of events, even thought she must know these words belong to Andrew.

“On which count?” 

_On all counts_ , Andrew wants to say. Because Andrew _doesn’t_ deserve Neil, and Neil _does_ deserve better. And the whole Andrew-earning-the-right-to-be-cared about thing? Neil was wrong. Andrew doesn’t need to earn the right for Neil to care about him. If Neil wants to listen to Andrew’s problems and offer a shoulder to cry on and yada yada yada, Andrew isn't going to stop him. If Neil wants to waste his time and energy caring about Andrew, that’s his own damn fault. It’s not like Andrew tells Nicky to stop caring about him - God knows he’d never listen to that advice. 

Because it’s never been about earning the right to be cared about. It's about the fact that Andrew doesn't care about anyone else. Anything else. And as long as that’s true, there can’t be a _this_ between him and Neil.

“I don't care. About anyone,” Andrew says. “That’s what he doesn’t understand.”

"Anyone?” Bee repeats, tapping her pen as she waits for Andrew to elaborate. They’ve gotten good at this over the years: Andrew says something problematic, and Bee pulls out the exact word that holds the most meaning. “What about Nicky and Aaron?”

“Yeah, what about them?” Andrew asks, sounding like a whiny brat. Sounding like Neil. “Nicky’s in New York or Germany or God knows where, and only calls me when he’s drunk or pissed off or depressed because Erik's family is picture fucking perfect and he's got no one. No, worse than no one: he’s got me and Aaron. And Aaron - God, he hasn’t been back once since graduation. Shitload of good _caring_ did.”

“Are you saying you didn't care for them? Or that they shouldn't care for you?" Bee asks. 

_Both,_ Andrew wants to say. _N_ _either._

Most of the time, he wants to forget that Aaron and Nicky exist. Most of the time, that's enough to get by. But today it's not. He can't pretend that caring for them came without a price that he's stuck paying while they move on to bigger and better things. He can't pretend that part of that price isn't an inherent distrust of anyone who tries to get close to him. He hates them for making this so confusing. He hates that their leaving left scars. He hates that the only thing he feels for them is hate. He hates that he'll never truly be able to hate them. He hates that those two contradictions are impossible to hold in one hand, and yet that's exactly what he's doing right now. Holding onto his hate for himself, for Nicky, for Aaron, as though it's the only familiar thing about their fucked up lives. As though it's the only thing worth saving out of the wreckage of their lives. As though it's the only bit still safe enough to touch. 

"They left me," Andrew says, pausing between each word as it threatens to get stuck in his throat. He doesn't need to say how much their leaving hurt him, not when Bee was there to witness the aftermath herself. "After everything I did, they left." 

“After you kept them safe, at the cost of your own well-being," Bee says. "But we've talked about this - that's what boundaries are for. So you can care about other people without giving up more than you're able to." 

Boundaries, the bane of his existence.

Of course she makes it sound so easy, as if he could tell Neil, _no, I totally wouldn't throw myself in front of a moving bus to save you._ The problem isn't that Andrew doesn't understand boundaries, because a good Dom always does. The problem is that after Aaron left, Andrew gave himself one boundary: he told himself he'd stop caring. That was the one promise he'd made to himself that he could keep. And that makes him a bigger idiot than Neil, because he's safe now, but at what cost? How can he erase the only boundary that's kept him safe? Bee doesn't let him get stuck in these thoughts, though.

"What if your well being and someone else's safety weren't mutually exclusive?" she asks, as though she already knows how impossible it sounds. 

Andrew feels sick, already jumping ten steps ahead and envisioning a future where he can't say no. “So what, it's my fault that - it's just -” He can’t form the words, already losing mental footing as he tries to figure out what the fuck Bee means. A life without boundaries means giving up all of the hard-won control he's worked so hard to hold onto.

It's not a good sign that they're only halfway into the session and Andrew is already floundering. 

“I mean,” Bee says gently after a long silence, “that you had very few tools at your disposal in the past, and you have more support now, and that could possibly change the outcome with Neil. I'm wondering if your current reservations aren't because you don't care, but because you already care quite a bit about Neil. I'm wondering if you already care so much that you decided your feelings are less important than his safety. If you've based your current choices on assumptions from your past, rather than facts from the present."

But that's where she's wrong, because she doesn't live with the monsters inside his head. She always sees the best in people because she only sees what's on the surface. She doesn't know what it's like to live in fear of what's inside her head. 

"I'll hurt him," Andrew says. "If he's my sub, I'll hurt him. Or I'll get hurt. Because I can't control myself around him. That's just a fact." 

"You think he compromises your self control," she observes, and it must be his white-knuckled grip on the couch that gives him away, or the way his face is frozen in a mask of defensive anger, because she's spot-on. "Because he makes you feel things. And you need to be controlled, because you think you're dangerous." 

And there's Bee, as cutthroat as always, going for the kill. Of course it's because Neil makes him feel things. Of course Andrew is dangerous. Of course Andrew is terrified to open himself up, just for Neil to leave. It's what everyone else has done. And that's the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and over again and expecting something different. Andrew's not insane. He knows exactly what will happen. Just when he starts to care, Neil will leave him. 

"You don't get it," Andrew says. "You can't scene with someone if you're worried about their ability to use a safeword properly because they're too wrapped up in pleasing their partner."

He isn't sure if he's talking about himself or Neil anymore, but it doesn't really matter and that's the problem. Andrew would do anything for Neil, and he gets the feeling that Neil is desperate enough to be his sub that he, too, would blur the lines of consent. He's equal parts terrified and enamored with the idea that Neil might give him anything he asked for, and it scares him that he could take and take and take until there was nothing left for Neil to give.

Neil is definitely the kind of sub who'd compromise his own comfort for the pleasure of his Dom, just like Andrew would compromise his own happiness for the safety of others.

There's a word for that: toxic. 

"You know, I'm not a Dominant," Bee says, as if that needs clarifying. "But I'm wondering if that's not entirely true. The way you've talked about your friend Jean in the past ... he doesn't seem to compromise his integrity as a partner by caring about Jeremy, or focusing on Jeremy's pleasure during a scene. In fact, from what you've said, I think Jean's ability to care so deeply about Jeremy makes him uniquely qualified to be his Dominant." 

She pauses, and Andrew doesn't have an answer for that. It's none of his business what it means when Jeremy whispers _je t'aime_ in Jean's ear when they think no one's looking. It's none of his business how Jean can call his sub a slut, or fuck him raw, and afterwards caress his cheek and call him _mon précieux._ It's none of his business how they make it work. It's not like they live in a universe in which Neil says _I want you,_ and Andrew tightens his fingers in Neil's hair and says _mine._

Not that he's been thinking about running his fingers through Neil's hair or whispering in his ear like a horny teenager. Truthfully, Andrew doesn't know where the thought comes from. He has been just fine keeping his subs at a casual distance for such a long time - never scening with one for more than a few weeks or months at a time.

He also doesn't need the nagging question of _is it even worth it_ _?_ He's never felt the urge to protect a sub as much as he has Neil, and he doesn't know how to integrate his protective instinct with his instinct to harm. What if he only thinks that Neil is his answer, and it turns out that Neil only makes him more and more miserable? What if it drives him mad, wanting to hurt and help Neil in equal measure? What if he can't do it? 

That would make Andrew as bad as Nicky and Aaron, running away to chase his own gratification and leaving nothing but selfish abandon in his wake. 

He wonders, for the first time, if Neil would make him happy, and immediately feels childish for even entertaining the thought. Happiness is just a word with a definition that Andrew hasn't felt in years - a hollow-point bullet against his throat - and it always hits its mark in the form of a question: _are you happy?_

(Bee doesn't ask it, but Jeremy does. Jean does. Roland does. Nicky does. Aaron doesn't, but that's only because they don't really talk. Andrew doesn't think Neil would.)

He's been silent for too long, and Bee interrupts his thoughts.

"This might seem a little unrelated, but all this talk about Neil has made me think of something you told me a while back. About the family you were placed with after Bakersfield. Especially since you mentioned Bakersfield earlier."

Andrew is reluctant to hear Bee revisit whatever bad memory she's trying to connect to the present situation. 

“You said that your foster mom bought you a new backpack in the fifth grade - the first new thing that had been wholly yours in years. And when you showed up on the first day, at this new school, you saw a boy on your bus who carried a ratty notebook back and forth to school each day.” She taps her pen against her notebook to punctuate each word: “No. Backpack.”

“He didn’t have one,” Andrew says. He doesn't need her to walk him through this memory, but he's willing to humor her attempts at creating a narrative out of his past, weaving sense into his most painful memories. At the very least, it's a distraction from the crushing weight of everything _Neil,_ and he needs a moment to breathe without disappointment creeping up his esophagus.

“No, he didn’t. But you weren’t his parent. You weren’t his teacher or social worker or school nurse. It wasn’t your job, as a child, to make sure this boy had a backpack. But you gave him yours. Why?” 

Fucking _why,_ Bee? Isn’t that the million dollar question? 

“Because he deserved better," Andrew says automatically.

“So do a lot of people,” Bee says neutrally. “That doesn’t mean you’re responsible for them.” 

“No one else was helping him,” Andrew says, losing patience. “It wasn’t fair.”

“A lot of things aren’t fair,” Bee says. “We’ve talked about black-and-white thinking before. Right and wrong. It wasn’t right for you to lose your backpack.” 

_Why?_

“And if you could just help one kid like you," she continues, "one kid who was worse off than you, it would make all of your sacrifices, all of your pain, worthwhile. Right?” 

Then Bee waits, letting that sink in.

Andrew doesn’t want to think about the stupid backpack anymore, or the stupid kid he gave it to. He wants to think about Neil again. But he can’t exactly stop the train of thought Bee’s introduced.

He remembers that day. Everything about it - eidetic memory. Gift, curse, whatever. It was an Incredible Hulk backpack. Not that he knew who the Incredible Hulk was at the time, but it was green. And that stupid 'get to know your foster kid' sheet that went to each new home said his favorite color was green because he’d refused to participate in filling it out, so a social worker had just bullshitted some answers on his behalf. And then the MacNallys had bought him that backpack because _what kid doesn’t love the Incredible Hulk?_

They were the kind of fosters who told themselves (after the fact of course), _we meant well_. Mrs. MacNally had stared at him with a forced smile, holding out that stupid backpack, desperate for validation. Which should have never happened, because it should've never been Andrew's job to make them feel better, but there they were: aisle 8 of the Wal-Mart in unincorporated Kern County, and Andrew will forever have that image of Mrs. MacNally smiling and holding up that stupid green backpack ingrained in his mind. 

He remembers how much it cost: $9.99 plus tax. It wasn’t even one of those top-of-the-line Jansport backpacks or whatever the fuck rich kids got. 

Andrew didn’t bother telling anyone that green wasn’t actually his favorite color, that he’d never heard of the Incredible Hulk. 

“I never wanted the stupid backpack,” Andrew says after a very long pause. “I hated it. I _hated_ the MacNallys for buying it for me. I hated them for smiling at me like they were doing me some kind of favor for buying basic shit like a fucking _backpack_. I hated that they thought it was going to fix me, and I got rid of it. It was never about the other kid.” 

“Which is it, then?” Bee asks. “Because when you first told me that story, you said it was about helping that kid."

“That was the last time I thought my fosters would be different,” Andrew says, and isn’t that just the saddest thing he’s admitted in a long time. “It was like every other failed placement. It was never about the other kids. It was about pissing off the family I'd never really be a part of. I wanted to hurt them and I didn't know how to do that other than get rid of the stupid backpack they were so obsessed with.”

Bee writes something down and shuts her notebook. He can see the judgement written across her face; it’s an expression he’s used to. The _don’t sell yourself short_ expression that she reserves for when she thinks he has been particularly ruthless with his perceptions of his younger self.

“I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with yourself,” she says. “We’re back in binary thinking territory. Actions don’t have one cause. There can be more than one reason that you reacted the way that you did. Maybe you wanted to hurt the MacNallys _and_ wanted to help the boy. Both can exist at the same time. One does not invalidate the other.” 

It is at that particular moment that he knows exactly what she’s going to say before she says it. 

“Like with Neil,” Bee says. “Maybe you’re allowed to want to hurt him and care for him at the same time.” 

They’ve discussed a lot of sex-related topics over the years. They’ve discussed Andrew's inability to find release with a partner through gentler forms of intimacy. They've discussed what happens at Eden's and how it makes Andrew feel. They’ve discussed his subs and his hookups and preferences. They’ve picked apart all of his past traumas until there’s no stone left unturned. 

But _Neil_. 

The question comes out before he can censor it, mostly because it's been on his mind since he spoke with Neil on Halloween and he needs someone else to tell him he's not losing his mind. 

“What if it’s me?” 

Bee waits, not prompting him this time, letting him find a voice for his doubts. 

“What if I'm the one who's inexperienced?" He pauses, a long silence that feels insurmountable. "I don’t know how to be vulnerable with him.” 

There’s another pause, which Bee finally does step in to fill. 

“But you think he deserves that? Or do you?” 

Andrew grimaces, hating that he’s using Bee’s words right now. “Why not both?” 

She grins immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

Andrew shrugs. It’s stupid that he’s an adult with a full time job who pays taxes and knows what a 401k is, but he can’t talk about his feelings without blushing like an idiot again. 

“We only have a few minutes left," Bee says. "And I know you started this session with the Bakersfield dream."

“Nightmare,” Andrew corrects her. “The Bakersfield _nightmare._ ”

“Sorry. I forgot," she says. “The Bakersfield _nightmare._ ” 

She didn't forget. She never forgets. (It's the one lie he allows from her).

Because that’s the fourth kind of nightmare: the Bakersfield nightmare.

He shakes his head no.

"Not today then?" Bee asks, but it's more of a disappointed conclusion than a question. She still puts in the effort to put the little question mark into her voice though, which Andrew appreciates, as if there's a chance he's going to change his mind.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and he's back in Bakersfield. There's a mountain lurking somewhere over his shoulder. He's in the pit of a valley in a part of the state that's mostly desert, where the wind doesn't reach him and the temperatures reach a hundred and fifteen before it's even ten o'clock in the morning. He's suffocating in the kind of dry heat that South Carolina never has, and it feels like the closest thing to home he's ever known.

He opens his eyes and he's back in Bee's office, cold and grey and washed in the shadows that make November so utterly dreary. 

"Maybe next week," Andrew says. 

With any luck, it'll be months before he wakes up with the taste of summer on his tongue, and his answer will still be the same: it's a nightmare, not a dream.

\---

As it turns out, Andrew was wrong. 

There aren't four kinds of nightmares. There are five, and this is one he can't wake up from. 

Here's how it starts: after therapy with Bee, Andrew goes in to work for the rest of the afternoon. He gets a text from Jean: _cu_ _m over later._

To anyone who doesn't know Jean, it probably sounds sexual. But Andrew knows Jean (too well). Jeremy only just got Jean to upgrade to a real phone a few months ago, so he still types short-hand for most things. Including _cum_ , apparently, because typing _come_ would just be too difficult, and Jean hates the English language with such a passion that he butchers it as often as possible.

It's a good thing no one else reads Andrew's texts.

And since he isn't yet expecting his afternoon to turn into a nightmare, he sends back: _will there be alcohol?_ It's a dual purpose question. If there's alcohol, it means there's no risk of Jeremy and Jean kicking him out early so they can scene with each other. Jean is strict about his sobriety-during-a-scene rule, and there's no chance he'll lay a hand on Jeremy if either of them have been drinking. The (obvious) second reason that he asks for booze is because he genuinely wants to know if he can get drunk tonight in the privacy of Jean's home.

It would be a nice change of pace, especially since he doesn't feel relaxed drinking at Eden's lately. Every time Roland or Jean offer him something to drink - lights flashing, music blaring, sweat running down the curve of his back, his shirt stick to his skin uncomfortably - he feels like they're shaking the magic 8 ball in his head and whispering, _will Andrew scene with Neil tonight?_ The answer always disappoints, because Andrew is a stubborn, cheap bastard who accepts any and all free drinks.

 _Yes,_ Jean texts back. _Roland's cuming 2. 9pm, my_ _place_. 

It's not like Andrew was an English major or anything, but even he recognizes that _cuming_ and _coming_ have literally the same number of letters, so he's inclined to think this is less about texting shorthand and more defiling the English language.

But other than that, Jean's response is typical. It's normal enough that Andrew doesn't think twice about joining them. 

When he arrives at Jean's a few hours later, nothing is out of the ordinary. Roland mixes a giant batch of something heavily alcoholic that tastes impossibly like sunshine and lavender, which Andrew would never admit to liking. Not that he needs to say anything for Jean to raise an eyebrow as Andrew pours himself his fifth glass, which Roland takes as his cue to step in. 

"Y'all need to slow down," Roland says, tugging the pitcher out of Andrew's reach, pointing directly at him. "And _you_ need food." 

It's not Andrew's fault that Roland is a protective mother hen that knows exactly when Andrew's had too much to drink. They haven't been friends for six years for nothing. 

"I just got settled," Jeremy complains from his place in Jean's lap, petting his hair absently (not that Jean seems to mind). "Let's just watch a movie or something and pass out." 

"Taco Bell," Jean announces, as if that is a complete thought on its own.

It is, apparently. And it's a divisive one, mostly because Jeremy hates Taco Bell with a passion.

But Andrew's in an antagonistic mood after a long day, and he actually does love Taco Bell, so he's willing to be agreeable for once. 

"I'll drive," he offers immediately. It also helps that lately, there's nothing he loves more than pissing off Jeremy Knox. He's had to watch Jeremy dance with Neil, put his hands on Neil, sit in Neil's lap, share drinks with Neil. Especially since Neil eats that shit _up -_ that kind of easy physical affection doesn't come naturally to Andrew, and every time he sees Jeremy do it so effortlessly, he gets pissed off knowing that he'll never be like that. 

Not that he wants to be like Jeremy Knox, but Andrew's drunk, and he's always been jealous of the weirdest things. Back in grade school, it was the kids who had birthday cakes with those number candles - the big wax ones that were in the shape of a giant '9' stuck into the middle of an obnoxious cake. It would've made more sense to be jealous of the fact that those kids got parties to celebrate their birthdays, but he knew his fosters would never pay for a party on his behalf. It was better to set his sights on something more reasonable, like a $2.00 candle. 

That's how he feels now. He's just a kid trying to get the $2.00 candle instead of the whole damn party. He's forced to watch Jeremy and Jean play house, knowing full well he'll never have that white-picket-fence dream. Not that he wants that. He just wants the candle - Neil. Or ... whatever. Maybe he's mixing metaphors. Actually, now that he's thinking about it, his metaphors are just wrong. Neil isn't a candle at all. He's a goddamned five-tier wedding cake that Andrew wants to bury his face in.

Fuck, he wants cake now. Whatever Roland made is _potent_ , because Andrew hasn't felt this kind of fucked up in a long time. He stumbles to the front door before he gets too caught up in thoughts of what he'd do with Neil, cake, and a locked room. He jangles his keys obnoxiously back at his friends.

"Last one out gets to ride in the trunk," he says. 

He doesn't wait for anyone to follow him, taking advantage of the cool November night and lighting a cigarette as Jeremy grumbles inside. He takes a long drag, waiting for something to click into place in his head. Something about Neil, or the candles, or the birthday ... he can't place his finger on what he's chasing, but there's something he's forgetting right now. It's a funny feeling, one he only gets when he's drunk. He doesn't actually _forget_ anything, but it makes it much harder to concentrate on that he's trying to remember. It makes it easier to be an observer to his thoughts. 

"You're not driving like this," Roland says, joining him on the front step. 

"Like hell I am," Andrew says, clutching his keys to his chest. After a second, he frowns at his words. "Like hell I'm not?" He doesn't know how that phrase is supposed to go, and _wow,_ he hasn't been drunk like this in a while. Good thing Roland's there to catch the keys when they slip out of his hand. 

No. _Bad Roland._ He isn't allowed to drive the Mas. That's Andrew's car. 

"Wait -" Andrew says, reaching forward to grab the keys back. He ends up losing hold of his cigarette and stumbles forward, his balance faltering as the front step appears out of nowhere to attack him. Before Andrew can fall, Jeremy grabs his arm and helps him down carefully, walking with him until they're on more horizontal ground. 

"It's just down the street," Andrew complains to no one in particular. "We'd only have to drive for two seconds."

"Not happening," Roland says, ever the responsible bartender. "I'm not letting you drive us into a tree because you wanted a bastardized version of chalupa at -" he squints at his phone in the dark, checking the time, "-Midnight." 

"He's not wrong," Jeremy says to Andrew, hiccuping. "Chalupas are _shit_ at Taco Bell. They're always lukewarm and soggy and the lettuce is kinda wilt-y and sad. Once you've had them fresh -"

"We know, babe," Jean says, appearing out of nowhere and giving Andrew a mild heart attack. "But California is 2500 miles away and your mom isn't going to ship food anymore. Or did you forget about the roach box last summer?" 

"I'm just saying it's not authentic," Jeremy mumbles.

"Neither is McDonald's," Jean says, "But you don't see me complaining about fast food when it's midnight and we're all drunk."

"You're supposed to have better taste than this," Jeremy mutters, rolling his eyes. "You're _French._ France is, like, the fancy food capitol of the world." 

"That's not the only thing the French are known for," Jean says, stepping close enough to his sub that he can brush his fingers down Jeremy's exposed forearm. It would be an innocent gesture in any other context, but Jean can make anything filthy if he tries hard enough. Actually, he doesn't need to try at all. Add in alcohol and he's a goddamned sexual danger to society. 

Jeremy flushes and mumbles something under his breath that Andrew thinks is maybe in French, maybe in Spanish, but he's too drunk to tell the difference right now and no one is translating for him so he lets the words wash over him. Jean shoots back something in French (Or Spanish? Does the French bastard speak _every_ language?) that sounds far too erotic considering Andrew definitely hears _Taco Bell_ slipped in the middle while Jean traces his fingers across the hem of Jeremy's shirt. 

"We'll walk!" Jeremy announces as soon as Jean's done speaking, his voice too loud for the quiet street. "Taco Bell sounds great." 

Roland rolls his eyes. "You sure? That's at least a mile from here. We could avoid this mess by getting delivery." 

"You're healthy and young. One mile isn't going to kill you." Jeremy breezes past, already following Jean across the lawn towards the promised land of 24/7 cheesy carbs. He waves a bored hand back in Roland's direction. "Maybe we'll get you one of those slushie things to make up for it." 

Andrew only follows Jeremy and Jean because Roland is on his shit list for 1) taking away the drinks, 2) taking away his car keys, and 3) generally being a killjoy right now. He just wants food so his head will stop spinning so much. He hasn't eaten since before his session with Bee, and drinking on an empty stomach wasn't his best idea. Whatever. It's not like that can't be fixed easily enough. 

The upside of being this drunk is that he doesn't have to think about anything unpleasant, courtesy of Roland's magic mixed drinks. The guy should really open a bar or something. Which is a funny thought, because Roland already _does_ work at a bar, doesn't he? He's totally a pro. Like a _real_ pro. His drinks are that good, and Andrew could barely taste the alcohol in whatever Roland made. A true testament to his bartending talent. Usually, he'd be concerned about drinking a mystery drink without knowing exactly what's in it, but he's with friends who won't try anything weird. 

Except who is Andrew kidding? Of course his friends are always doing something weird. Take right now, for example. They just stopped walking and are staring at him like he's grown two heads. They're _weird._ It's fucking _weird._

"What?" Andrew growls, trying to sound threatening. For a long moment, no one moves, but then Jeremy's face splits into a wide grin and Roland looks like he's about to hug someone and Jean looks appropriately inconvenienced for a Frenchman who just used his sex appeal to convince his boyfriend to go with him to Taco Bell at midnight. (Andrew can at least admire Jean's undying devotion to fast food, not that now is an appropriate time for such observations.) 

When no one else offers an explanation, Jeremy finally says, "You _giggled._ Just a second ago."

Andrew doesn't even bother deigning that with a response. He didn't - doesn't - _giggle._ He pushes past all of them, continuing towards what he hopes is Taco Bell, not bothering to comment on the few seconds it takes everyone else to start moving again. 

The rest of the group spends the rest of the walk talking in harsh whispers.

Andrew didn't _giggle._ Even when he's drunk, he doesn't _laugh._

He spends the rest of the walk to Taco Bell purposefully drowning out all giggle-related commentary by thinking about Neil, because his thoughts on Neil are very loud. That's Neil, though: loud. Usually, Andrew has more than single-syllable words to describe Neil, but he's used up a lot of words already today with Bee and his brain deserves a break. So Neil is just loud and for now, that's enough. Not that Andrew minds the noise; in fact, he thinks he prefers it. Even if no one taught Neil what an inside voice is, Andrew never has to wonder too long about what's on Neil's mind. He doesn't always agree with what Neil says (he hasn't forgotten when Neil called him a good person), but he appreciates Neil's transparency. 

He tries to convince himself that's the only reason he likes Neil so much in the first place. That, and the fact that Neil doesn't give him pitying looks or half-baked questions that leave awkward silences in their wake. Like _what do you do for a living?_ Or _what did you study?_ Or _when did you graduate?_ Now that Andrew thinks about it (which is a bad idea, given his current state of moderate-to-severe inebriation), that could be a bad sign. He kind of assumed Neil never asked because Neil has the small-talk skills of an anxious politician, but apparently Andrew's doubts creep in stealthily when he's drunk. Maybe Neil doesn't ask because he doesn't care. Even if Neil was raised in a barn - and Andrew suspects there's at least a 50% chance of that - he would've asked _something_ about Andrew's past if he was interested in Andrew for anything other than the sex. 

Right? 

Before he can decide whether that thought holds any merit, he’s being told to order and then shepherded outside since the Taco Bell dining room is about to close. He doesn't even question it when Jean drags all six bags of food outside and sits each of them on the curb with a stack of napkins and a pile of paper wrapped tacos. 

It isn't until the food is in his lap that Andrew realizes he isn't hungry at all, and that is entirely Jean’s fault. Jean invited him over, and Jean wanted Taco Bell, and Jean has the perfect sub and the perfect house and the perfect job and perfect life. Jean already has all of that perfect-ness, and he's going to have Neil, too. Already has him, maybe. Jean gets what Jean wants, and Andrew does not.

He isn’t usually this insecure, but it’s been a long fucking day and he’s pissed the hell off because Jean is going to steal (already stole?) his ... friend ( _friend_? That's a funny word for how he feels about Neil). And he feels like Jean and Jeremy and Roland are already disgustingly happy. He watches Jeremy curl up against Jean and rest his head against Jean's chest as he shuts his eyes. Roland licks his palm and tries to stick it against Jean's cheek, who only ends up laughing and spilling Jeremy's drink when he jumps up to get away. 

Now might be a good time to explain the whole candle thing to them. That Neil is the candle or the cake or whatever fucked up reward Andrew thinks he’s entitled to - he can't figure out what he was trying to get at before. It probably didn't make sense anyway. But Bee is always on his ass about being vulnerable with the people he trusts, so it's really the perfect opportunity to tell them how he really feels about Neil. Not that he exactly has a word for it, but being drunk and dumb and hungry isn't helping him make the best decisions right now and - yeah, he definitely won't use the candle metaphor because then he'll have to figure out how to explain that without sounding as fucked up as he is. 

The problem is that despite being drunk and ready to make mistakes, Andrew won't kill his friendship with Jean and Jeremy over this. He already gave them permission to scene with Neil, and if they already did, he can't announce _remember when I told you it was okay to scene with Neil? I changed my mind, because I think Neil understands me better than any other sub I've met and I don't want him to be the one that got away, but I can't tell him any of this because he deserves more than I can offer him, which is why I told you guys to scene with him and now that I realized what a mistake I made, I want to take it back, okay?_

Not happening. He could barely order his food without slurring his words, so he would be lucky to get through the first three words without having to restart half a dozen times, and then Jeremy will make fun of him and Roland will say he shouldn't drink so much and at that point he'll lose his nerve and call them all assholes before burying his regrets in five layers of cheese. 

But even if he can't articulate how he feels about Neil yet, he can't shake off the question rattling around inside his brain, so he blurts it out just to free up space inside his head. 

"Did you fuck Neil yet?"

He decides it's like puking; once the words are out, he feels so much better. And he's onto something with the puking thing, because right now his stomach is starting to roll, and it's not because of the alcohol.

"Yeah," Roland says. "He told you?"

It's funny, because Andrew’s first reaction isn't disappointment that Jeremy and Jean have already fucked Neil. It's confusion. Why would Roland be answering on their behalf?

The only thing Andrew can say is _what?_ very quietly, as Jean tells him it's probably not what he thinks. But Andrew isn’t freaking out. No, he’s deceptively calm, to the point that that he isn’t quite sure if Neil actually meant anything to him in the first place. Then he’s just numb. 

At least he has his answer, even if his brain hasn't quiet figured out what to do with that information. Jean and Jeremy already did it. And he doesn't mind that they fucked Neil, or maybe Neil fucked them - and nope, _nope,_ Andrew does not need to focus on that thought if he's going to form a coherent sentence anytime soon. He's just pissed off at himself for being completely unaffected by this information. Neil's been in a threesome? Great. Andrew has, too. Neil's first BDSM scene was with another Dom? That's _fine._ Andrew had been the one to tell him he was inexperienced. Neil probably wore new lingerie? Nothing wrong with that. 

Denial never lasts, though, and soon enough a quiet voice breaks through the numbness in his chest: _Neil_ _won't want you once he knows there's something better out there._ It's the exact reason Andrew pushed Neil away in the first place. It's not like Neil would hold out for someone like Andrew. No one else ever has.  
  
That's when he realizes the numb feeling might be better than whatever this is. 

"It's not that big a deal," Andrew says to Jean, trying to convince himself that nothing has to change after tonight. He can go back to Eden's and avoid Neil and call him a brat if he's forced to talk to him. 

"Uh, I'm over here," Roland says. 

It takes a few moments before everything clicks, thanks to his impaired judgement and the five-second-delay between his brain and reality that's making him lose track of the conversation. He had asked the question - and how had he put it, exactly? _Did you fuck Neil?_ \- and maybe he'd more shouted than asked, but Jean hadn't been the one to reply.

No. That had been Roland _._

"You fucked Neil," Andrew states, his voice far more apathetic than it should be now that he knows Roland is not answering on behalf of Jean and Jeremy. 

"Yeah," Roland says. "I wasn't sure when he was going to tell you, and he made me promised not to say anything until he figured his shit out, and - I just - I couldn't -"

"You and Neil,” Andrew repeats. It feels like a game of who's-on-first right now, but he needs to be sure about this before he can process the absurdity of finding out his occasional hook up fucked his ... Neil ... while sitting outside of a Taco Bell, absolutely shitfaced at half-past midnight.

"That's what I said."

"And he told you not to tell," Andrew says.

"I mean, I can see why he didn't want you to know," Roland explains. "It was kind of humiliating for him." 

"Right," Andrew says, because _that_ makes perfect sense. "Humiliating."

"Yes, _Andrew,_ what else would you call it when you say someone else's name during sex?" Roland asks with an exasperated eye roll. "His capacity for repression and denial is frankly as impressive as it is concerning. He texted me one night after you'd spent, like, an hour shit-talking him. I mean, you called him _irritatingly captivating_ and then waxed poetic about his eyes being a complacent shade of blue, so it was kind of obvious that you liked him. You're not as subtle as you think, okay? And I was worried you'd get mixed up with him and end up getting hurt. Which I guess was stupid, I guess, considering what happened, but that's besides the point. I agreed to it because he wanted - needed - someone to Dom him, and you were too busy treating him like a stupid college kid to see how desperate he was. I didn't want him texting some other Dom and getting fucked over during his first scene, and it's not like it was some kind of hardship for me to help him out." 

That makes everyone go dead silent. For once, not even Jeremy has anything to add.

"I mean, was it my best decision? No," Roland continues. "But neither was fucking you on and off for two years because I thought being quiet about your issues would be more helpful than actually telling you to get help." He pauses, presses his hands against his forehead, and gets very quiet. "I know you remember how this works. Tell me I crossed a line and I'll go." 

Andrew remembers. Before Roland, there was a string of botched one-night-stands and hookups with strangers that ended in an STD scare. That was when he'd ended up at Eden's, during his sophomore year of college. And that was when he started scening with Roland. Those memories aren't so bad - lots of skin, lots of things Andrew said that he felt ashamed of at the time. _I can't do this unless I hurt you -_ Roland was the first person he told that to. _Don't touch me -_ Roland was the first person to respect all of his boundaries without question. 

He isn't unused to kicking Roland out. He did it when Roland accidentally said _I love you_ after sex once, and when Roland's hand softly grazed Andrew's cheek when Andrew was blowing him. When Roland asked him to stay after they’d both gotten off. When Roland offered to get tested so they wouldn't have to keep using condoms. So no, he has no problem telling Roland to fuck off, because their relationship has always been transactional: Roland gives, and Andrew takes. 

He supposes this is simply a long-overdue reversal of roles.

"Fuck, man, I don't know what I was thinking," Roland says. "I had this whole thing I was gonna say, but I'm too drunk for this. I'm fucking sorry." 

Andrew wants to tell Roland to stop talking. There isn't anything Roland could say to make this better or worse. Andrew is frighteningly unaffected knowing that Roland has fucked Neil. What hurts is that he didn't ask Andrew about it beforehand, or tell him sooner, or that without this misunderstanding he might never have found out. There used to be a time that Andrew would sit at the bar before Eden's opened, when Roland stacked empty glasses and they'd each recounted their sexual exploits from the night before. He doesn't know when that stopped. 

And now it's too late. Roland fucked Neil. Andrew already gave Jean and Jeremy permission to do the same. It was a mistake to think he could have someone like Neil, who so obviously needs more than Andrew can offer.

So he seals his fate. Protecting himself like this is second nature by now, no more difficult than breathing. He pushes everything Neil-related into a little box in his head and tapes it shut, until there's nothing left to think about. His mind becomes a blank slate. It's been a while since he felt this way, but it's so much more tolerable like this.

He takes a moment to look at Roland's guilty expression, Jean's concerned face, Jeremy's twitchy hands. They're all on edge, waiting for him to implode or explode or do _something._

It's even easier to open his mouth now that he's put all of his Neil thoughts away. 

"Cool," he says in a perfectly monotone voice, and then promptly vomits onto the pavement. 

And that, right here, is the fifth kind of nightmare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoyed this update xx
> 
> sometimes i get distracted when i'm editing and i end up listening to lewis capaldi on repeat for an hour and then i run out of time to write because i have Responsibilities?? like who decided i should have bills to pay. not me, let me assure you. 
> 
> so far i've been keeping up with the once-a-week update schedule, but the next chapter is not edited AT ALL because i'm a gremlin who decides to re-write entire scenes at the last minute, and now i'm scheduled for overtime this weekend. so the next update will most likely be ready around august 7 or 8 depending on how brain-fried i am when the time comes!!
> 
> in the meantime thank u all for your patience and comments and kudos and support of this little fic!


	8. Pretty Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (after last chapter i just imagine Andrew going back to Jean and Jeremy's house after Taco Bell - and no judgement, it's whatever, he had a hard day - but he's still super drunk still and self-pity is a powerful drug. so once Roland falls asleep on the couch and Jean + Jeremy crash in their own room, Andrew goes out to the Mas and just curls up in the back seat and blasts _Steal My Girl_ until he falls asleep because he isn't going to drive home drunk but he can't sleep in That House under Those Circumstances and yes he's very much thinking about Neil the entire time.) 
> 
> tags/warnings: oral sex/face fucking, Neil uses a gag for the first time, use of stoplight system (yellow is used at one point and everyone responds appropriately), rope bondage, partial suspension, spanking/impact play. Neil has some negative self-talk about his demisexuality. as always let me know if I've missed something in the tags!

Andrew disappears.

There's no better way to put it. Neil is an expert on disappearing, so he's not being dramatic when he says Andrew _disappeared._

Jean is the only one who seems to care about Andrew's sudden absence, and he _also_ happens to be an expert on disappearing, so he should know better. Yet that doesn't stop him from telling Neil _no he didn't._

"Then how do you explain it?" Neil demands. Not that he's keeping track, but he's talked to pretty much everyone in his and Andrew's overlapping social circles and deduced that: 1) Andrew has been AWOL for almost an entire week, and 2) no one has seen Andrew at Eden's since Neil got a little tipsy and told Andrew to stop being such an ass. He’s no Sherlock Holmes, but those two seem to be related. Then again, there’s always a chance that Neil's drunken declarations of undying friendship had been responsible for scaring Andrew away. He had been clear about the _just friends_ part, right? 

The point remains, however, that regardless of what Neil did or did not say, no one has seen Andrew in six-going-on-seven days and it's starting to freak him out. He's already envisioned Andrew being tortured in a basement, thrown into the trunk of a car (he's the perfect size for it, okay? Neil can't help himself), or locked in an abandoned warehouse. Not that Neil thinks there's a reason anyone would kidnap Andrew, but denial is a powerful drug and blaming the mafia is easier than blaming himself. 

Undoubtedly, this speaks volumes about Neil's own mental well being, but that's never been his top priority. Especially when Andrew is _missing._

"Calm down," Jean says. "He does this sometimes. He likes his space. To think." 

"He doesn't need space to _think,_ " Neil mutters bitterly. “Why would he -”

"He found out about you and Roland," Jean explains. "So, yeah, maybe he does need a little space right now." 

Jean's words catch Neil off guard, and he freezes in place. Roland wasn't supposed to tell anyone, and while Neil can't say he's surprised that the truth came out, he's surprised that it happened so quickly. 

His first reaction is to deny it, but Jean quirks an eyebrow at him expectantly and waits for Neil to tell him it didn't happen. Eden's really knew what they were doing when they hired him as a bouncer, because he has the _try me_ face down to a science, and when he crosses his arms and stares down at Neil, it takes a conceited effort for Neil not to shiver. The lie get stuck in Neil’s throat. Still, he says nothing because he doesn't owe anyone an explanation, especially not Jean. 

Seeing as the only reason he came to Eden’s tonight was to find out if Andrew was alright, and he supposes he can leave now. He has an answer (as unsatisfactory as it is). He arrived with intention to see Andrew if possible, but now that the news about Neil and Roland is common knowledge, he'd much rather avoid him (and everyone else, to be honest). 

He hadn't planned on justifying why he'd scened with Roland, and he feels like he should have a better explanation than _my_ _sexual experiment backfired_ before he approaches that topic.

But wanting to leave and actually leaving are two different things. At the very least, he needs to know how Andrew found out.

Jean turns to walk away.

“Wait,” Neil says. “How did he find out? How did _you_ find out?”

“How about a trade,” Jean suggests. “You tell me something I want to know and I’ll tell you how we found out.” 

Neil only hesitates a moment. It has to be Roland. It’s not like somebody was hiding in his closet while he fucked Neil. But there could be a reason he told everyone. Maybe he didn’t want to lie to his friends. Maybe he decided Neil’s secret wasn’t worth protecting. Maybe Roland never planned on keeping it a secret after all.

“Fine.” 

“Why Roland?” Jean asks. 

Neil wants to say _I don’t know,_ but Jean doesn’t play games and Neil really wants to know how everyone knows he scened with Roland. 

"It was a one-time thing,” Neil says. “I was pissed off and trying to prove a point to myself. I’m just - I don’t need your advice right now.”

He stops himself before he admits that he made a mistake. It _wasn't_ a mistake. Not that he expects Jean to understand - Neil hasn't felt the need to psychoanalyze what he did with Roland. He wanted to have sex - big deal. Lots of people do that every day. It's not the first one-night-stand he's ever had. 

Except calling it a one-night-stand feels grimy, because that's not quite what it was - not that he has any plans to do it again with Roland. But what they did wasn't the same as fucking a stranger and stumbling out of bed, shirt in one hand, wallet in the other, mumbling excuses to get out of dodge. Neil had never had sex and enjoyed it to the degree he did with Roland, and never had sex with someone he could trust to tie him down and fuck him. Andrew can take most of the credit for that, if Neil's being honest. 

Not that he can rely on Andrew to replicate that experience in the future. Neil isn't going to force Andrew into a dynamic. But his scene with Roland left him a little giddy. For years, he's fantasized about someone tying him up and fucking him into the mattress, someone who could make him feel things that he'd never felt before, someone that he could trust. But fantasy and reality are sometimes such distant relatives that Neil always carried doubt in the back of his mind when it came to finding a Dom. What if he found someone and he couldn't get turned on? What if it was no different than any other time he'd had sex? What if his fantasies translated so poorly that he couldn't even fantasize about BDSM anymore? 

In that sense, Kevin had kind of been a Godsend. Without the bet, Neil might not have gone to Eden's. He might never have met Andrew, or realized he could feel this kind of dizzying attraction for another person.

It's just too bad Andrew doesn't feel the same way. 

But now that Neil knows it's possible for him to feel this way, now that he knows how good it feels to trust someone, to give up control, he can start looking for a Dom who's actually interested in him. So no, he won't call what he and Roland did a mistake. 

"Did you prove it?" Jean asks, and when Neil frowns in response, Jean clarifies: "The point you were trying to prove to yourself. Did you prove it?" 

Neil hesitates for a moment. It's not 100% true that he'd been trying to prove a point to himself - it's not even a little bit true. At the time, he'd been so desperate to prove he could be the kind of sub that deserved Andrew that he'd run to the first Dom he could trust. Mix in jealousy and frustration, and Neil can't really explain why he'd done what he did. He made a reckless decision, and even though things went a little wrong, the result was positive. He learned a lot about himself, and that's what matters now. 

"I think so, yeah," Neil says. 

"I'm glad, then," Jean says, nodding. "Would you -" 

"Isn't that more than one question?" Neil retorts. 

Jean smirks. "Fine. You still want to know how we found out?" 

That smirk doesn't bode well for Neil, but it's a little late to back out now. On the bright side, if he's too humiliated, there's always the option of leaving Eden's forever. 

"Yeah," he says, trying to put as much cocky nonchalance as possible into the word. 

"Jeremy and Roland and Andrew and I got drunk. Andrew asked a ... poorly worded question. I’m pretty sure he was talking to me, but Roland answered before I could say anything. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Roland meant to tell. He just didn’t want to lie and Andrew can be kind of intense. I mean, he goes straight for the jugular.”

“What do you mean?”

"Andrew gets word vomit when he's drunk. We were just sitting there and he asked, _did_ _you fuck Neil yet?_ So I can see why Roland would assume he was talking to him instead of me, since Roland had, uh. Fucked you."

It takes all of two seconds for Neil to process what Jean said. "Wait, why would Andrew be asking _you_ if you'd fucked me yet?" 

There's a long pause then, where Jean looks at Neil with the kind of intensity he usually reserves for Jeremy. It reminds Neil of how Andrew watched him from across the bar after the last time they spoke. 

"Because Jeremy and I asked him if we could, and he said yes," Jean says.

Neil doesn't know how to react to that. Suddenly, Roland is not even on his radar anymore, and saying Andrew's name during sex means nothing. He latches on to the one constant before he has an aneurysm. 

"But Andrew's not my Dom," Neil says. "He is _not_ my Dom. Why would you ask him? Why would -"

"I never said he was," Jean says calmly. "But I don't like going behind people's backs. He's my friend, and you're my friend. I wanted to make sure - if I wanted to scene with you - that it wouldn't upset him. As a friend. Because I've known him for, God, seven years? Eight years? If it came between him and you, I'd chose him. He deserves that much from me."

The insinuation that Neil went behind Andrew's back is as unsettling as it is true. 

"I'd never submitted to anyone before," Neil says. He doesn't want Jean thinking he's a shitty sub, or a shitty friend. "Andrew made it clear he wasn't interested. What was I supposed to do, make a permission slip for him to sign first? He was already pissed the hell off that I told him to call me when he was ready. He would've laughed in my face if I asked him again." 

"Neil," Jean says, his tone much softer. "I wasn't blaming you. I just think Roland didn't think his decision through. He and Andrew have a long history." 

Jean takes a long moment to watch Neil digest that information. He hadn't considered the consequences for Roland, but in retrospect, it's pretty obvious that Neil doesn't exist in a bubble. At the time, though, he'd just been worried about himself. It's just one more reason he couldn't be trusted as Andrew's sub - he didn't even think of how asking Roland might have ruined one of Andrew's only friendships. 

"Did he - was Andrew -" Neil doesn't know what to ask. He wants to know if Andrew is still pissed off at him and/or Roland. He wants to know how badly he messed up. He wants to know why Jean asked for permission to fuck Neil in the first place, and why Andrew agreed. He wants to know if things are always going to be this complicated. He wants to how to fix this.

But his words get lost in the music. His mouth opens and shuts, unable to form the only question he really wants answered: _why doesn't Andrew want me?_

Jean, as always, is intuitive to a fault. He puts a hand on Neil’s shoulder to lead him towards the back, and Neil lets himself be pulled away from the crowd, if only to give himself time to think. The pass through a door marked STAFF ONLY, into a small room with too-bright fluorescent lights. It’s some kind of store room, packed with boxes and liquor and kegs and old glassware. Jean drags a couple of crates away from the wall to sit on and motions for Neil to take one.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Jean says. “You just looked like you needed a minute.”

Neil nods, then frowns. He appreciates the quiet and privacy of the storage room, even if it smells like mildew and cardboard. He also appreciates that Jean isn’t pressuring him to talk, but it's not necessary. More than anything, Neil needs someone to listen while he works out the tangles in his mind. 

“Do you think it’s stupid that I still want him?”

“Who?" Jean asks. "Andrew?"   
  
“Yeah. After everything - is it stupid?” Neil lets the question fill the small room until it becomes bigger than himself, bigger than Jean and Andrew and Roland. 

He knows Jean won't have an answer for him, because Jean doesn’t know what _after everything_ even means. Neil has compartmentalized those parts of his life so precisely that they don't bleed into each other. 

But _after_ _everything_ has a very specific definition. After Neil watched his mom die, after he tried to scorch all remains of Nathaniel from his life, after he learned that lies were simpler than the truth and intimacy was dangerous. After he realized that trust was a knife in his back and love was a bullet in his shoulder. After he decided that it would be easier to be alone. After he stopped hoping for more. After he gave up - 

After all of that? Yeah, he feels like an idiot for falling for Andrew. He was supposed to be smarter than this, stronger than this, better than this. He was the son of the Butcher, and he learned how to dissect pieces of himself in order to survive. The problem is that he doesn’t want to be that person anymore - no, he _isn’t_ that person anymore. Not alone. Not a runaway. Not a liar. He's Neil, who likes soft pastels and the feel of leather against his fingers and lace against his body. He's not fearless, but he's not running scared anymore.

“You're asking if I think you’re stupid for having feelings?” Jean repeats, not unkindly. 

“Well... yeah.”

"No, I don't," Jean says. "We've only known each other for a few months, but I don't think you're stupid for that." 

Neil isn't convinced, but Jean continues. 

"A lot of subs get into BDSM because they want something really specific. They want to give up control, or they want to feel free, or they want to forget about their problems for a few hours and use submission as a way to focus on their own well-being. Jeremy wanted to be my sub because he thought I could help distract him from everything else that was going on in his life - moving away from his family, living alone for the first time, trying to keep up his GPA. He wanted me to flip a switch in his brain and turn it all off, but it doesn't work like that. Being my sub didn't make him stop worrying, and at first he didn't understand why he still felt anxious whenever he wasn't in a scene. He started asking for more during our scenes, pushing his own limits, trying to get that feeling to last longer." 

Before, Neil hadn't thought much about Jean and Jeremy. He'd been jealous of their easy synchronicity, but never considered the effort it took to get to that point, or the ongoing effort it took to remain so close. They made it look so easy, and he just assumed they had been in-tune with each other from the start, effortlessly. Now, he wonders what else he's been wrongly assuming. It's not like he had role models growing up; his father's idea of conflict resolution involved a gun or a knife or both. 

"He had to learn to fight for us," Jean continues. "As his Dom, I just wanted him to be happy. I could help him work through tough decisions or help him relax when he was wound too tightly, but I couldn’t take away his fears permanently because that's not how this works. And if what I _could_ offer hadn’t been enough for him - the trust and attention and consistency of being my sub no matter what else was going on in his life - if that wasn't enough, I would've walked away a long time ago for both of our sake's. That's what a good Dom does - he recognizes when he can't meet his and his subs needs, and either fixes it or takes a step back to re-assess." 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better about Andrew?" Neil asks, tapping his foot nervously against the crate he's sitting on. "Because we aren't like you and Jeremy. Andrew already made it clear I'm not cut out to be his sub, so it's a little late for this talk." 

Jean shakes his head. "This isn't about you and Andrew. It's about _you_ , because whether you're with Andrew or Roland or any other Dom, you still need to remember why you got into this. And you need to figure out if what you're looking for is realistic." 

"That's a great way to tell me I'm setting my sights too high," Neil quips.

"Not what I meant."

He knows exactly what Jean meant, but he's too busy being difficult to admit it. He can't pinpoint the exact moment he decided he wanted to be a sub, or when he decided he wanted a Dom, because it happened so gradually. It started with him buying outfits and collars and lingerie in soft colors he'd never worn before, in fabrics that were too soft or delicate or sheer or impractical to have featured in his wardrobe when he was a Wesninski. They made him feel like Neil Josten was a boy reborn, someone who could be happy and free. For the first time, he felt sexy. 

Eventually, as he learned more about submission and BDSM, he gravitated away from pleasing himself and towards pleasing some yet-unknown Dom, a person who would accept and care for him no matter what. He wanted someone to tell him what he looked good in, wanted someone to tell him he was pretty no matter what. It would be so much easier for a Dom to tell him what to wear, to tell him _lace only_ or _I want my baby in red and black,_ because those kinds of rules could give Neil the kind of consistency the rest of his chaotic life at university lacked. He wanted someone to learn his body, inside and out, in such a personal and intimate way that nothing else could compare.

And then he learned about masochism, and he realized that was exactly what he wanted. With safewords and consent and clear boundaries, he imagined sex could be so much less nerve-wracking than it had been before. It might not feel like a burden - lights off, hands trembling, stomach unsteady - chased by a feeling of self-disgust. It could be something he controlled, start to finish, without needing to take control himself. That was the beauty of submitting to a Dom he trusted: he could hand over his sexuality and let them take care of it.

He made the (first) bet with Kevin after he realized that he wanted someone to own him, body and soul. The implicit trust in handing himself over completely to a Dom was something he desperately needed. And he planned on finding his perfect Dom at Eden’s.

Now, after meeting Andrew, Neil knows there is no such thing as a perfect Dom. And after scening with Roland, he realized that submitting wasn’t as easy as sitting back and letting a Dom take control. 

"What do you _actually_ want?" Jean asks. 

It's the simplest question, and the answer is anything but. Neil could spend hours second-guessing or censoring himself, trying to make it seem like he's always known what he wants. But he's done lying to himself and he's not going to lie to Jean. And given what he knows now, it might not be that hard to answer the question. Reality and fantasy aren't blurred anymore. He's able to accept that there are things he wants that he can’t have. 

"I want a Dom to put me under. I want to know what subspace feels like," he says. "I want someone to make me feel good. That's what I wanted from Roland. That's what I wanted with Andrew." He pauses, considering the cliff he's about to jump off of. He lowers his voice, his gaze coming to rest respectfully on the ground. "That's what I want from you, if you're still offering it. I want to scene with you and Jeremy." 

It’s dizzying to say it aloud, and the silence as he waits for Jean to reply leaves his heart pounding. This isn't like his proposition to Roland that came from a place of self-destruction and fear and frustration and anger. This decision doesn't burn him. 

Jean doesn't answer him right away, and Neil keeps his gaze lowered. If rejection is coming, he'd rather not have to look Jean in the eye. 

"That's it? That's all that you want?" Jean repeats, crossing his legs. Neil tracks the movement and nods, swallowing dryly. 

"Yes," he says. "Or - maybe. I don't know. I want a lot of things. But that's all that I can have." 

"You don't think that would be a mistake?" Jean asks. There isn't an accusation in his question, just honest concern. 

Neil bites his lip, considering the scuffed edges of his sneakers as he thinks. It would be a mistake to go behind Andrew's back (again). It would be a mistake to think Jean was going to be Neil's Dom long-term, because Jean already has Jeremy and they aren't looking for a second sub. It would be a mistake to scene with another Dom to get Andrew's attention or approval - not that Neil really got either of those the first time around. It would be a mistake to scene with Jean for any reason other than Neil's own desire to be submissive, to test his limits and explore his preferences with a Dom he respects and knows well enough to relax around. 

"I don't think so," Neil says. "I want to submit for an evening. I want to relax and have a good time. I trust you and Jeremy." 

"And what about Andrew?" 

"I don't know," he says honestly. "Let me talk to him first?"

Jean nods like he was expecting as much. "That's a good idea. If you're still interested afterwards, text me or Jeremy and we'll set something up."

\---

As it turns out, Neil doesn't have to wait long to talk with Andrew. After Jean leaves him, Neil spends a few minutes in the storeroom waffling about whether he should call or text Andrew. He types out several messages and deletes them all: too crass, too insensitive, too vague, too cryptic. Ultimately, despite his inherent distaste for his phone, he calls Andrew after wedging himself between two shelves in the back of the storeroom to prevent being overheard if anyone comes in while he's on the phone. 

The first call goes to voicemail after the first ring, and he almost doesn't try again. 

He's glad he does, though, because Andrew answers with a blistering, " _What_ _?"_

"Hey," Neil says. He feels breathless and lightheaded and, yeah, stupid. Stupid _nervous._ He probably should've planned out what he was going to say before calling. Too late to turn back now, though.

The line goes silent for long enough that Neil assumes Andrew either died or hung up, but Andrew finally replies. " _Why are you calling me?"_

"Do I need a reason?" Neil says, running a hand through his hair nervously. 

_"Yeah, you do, or I'm hanging -"_

"Don't," Neil interrupts. "Just give me a second." 

Andrew does, with that uncanny ability of his to go silent, and Neil scrunches his eyebrows together as he thinks. He could apologize to Andrew about Roland. Or he could ask permission to scene with Jean and pretend Roland never happened. Or he could forget about the whole thing and hang up before he says something stupid. 

Of course he opts for none of the above. He's not going to apologize for Roland, but he can't pretend like it didn't happen. The very least he can do is give Andrew whatever meager explanation he has. 

"I should've been the one to tell you about Roland," Neil blurts out. He figures it's best not to avoid the subject just because it's uncomfortable, and jumps in headfirst. "I didn't really think about what I was doing until it was over." 

Andrew pauses for a second. "... _Is that all you called for? Because I have shit to do other than sit around and listen to you talking about things that don't concern me."_

"Oh, right, I forgot, this doesn't concern you. Because I'm not your sub," Neil can't help the bitterness that seeps into his tone. 

_"You're finally learning,_ " Andrew says completely unironically, and Neil can almost see the bored look on Andrew's face. " _Took you long enough."_

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I only called because I want to scene with Jean and Jeremy. And I wanted to ask you first this time." 

Again the line goes quiet before Andrew answers in a voice so quiet Neil almost can't understand him. _"You're fucking kidding me."_

"Look, I scened with Roland because I wanted a lot of things that I couldn't have. I wanted to get over you or under you or in your head or _something,"_ Neil lets the words out quickly, in one breath, before he can swallow up the truth again and pretend that everything's fine again. Because it's not fine. Or it wasn't fine, but it's getting better, it'll be fine soon. "I honestly didn't know what I was doing, and it felt good right up until I started picturing you instead of him and then it felt even _better_ which is just ten kinds of fucked up, you know? And then I said your name and Roland was really understanding, and he said I was good for you. Right after he told me you guys used to scene together, which made me feel kind of weird about asking him to Dom me. So with Jean, I want to do things right and ask you first."

 _"I don't care,"_ Andrew says when Neil pauses long enough to take a breath.

"Stop with the act," Neil says. "I know you do, or you wouldn't be talking to me right now. I get that I'm never going to be your sub so I'm not asking permission as a submissive. I'm asking as a friend, because Jean said you gave him permission to scene with me. I just want to do this right."

When Andrew doesn't deny that, Neil cautiously asks, "Why say yes to him, though? Why Jean?" 

_"Because he's always been stupid enough to ask before he starts sticking his dick where it doesn't belong,"_ Andrew says. _"If Roland_ _had asked first, I would've told him the same thing. All of you can scene with whoever you want._ "

"So you don't mind me scening with Jean," Neil clarifies. He's not trying to be difficult, but he can't accept some cryptic bullshit from Andrew right now. A part of him wants Andrew to admit that he's bothered by Neil scening with other Doms. The other part wants Andrew to tell Neil he's a dirty slut and punish him for going behind his back. 

That's probably not the healthiest reaction, but Neil shivers at the thought. Andrew would come straight to Eden's. He'd shove open the door of the storage room, eyes fierce as he searched for Neil. And when he found Neil between the shelves, he'd shove Neil against the wall and tell him _slutty boys don't get Doms._ He'd push Neil to his knees, head forcibly bent low in a submissive position so he can't even look his Dom in the eye - not that Andrew was his Dom, not that he should be fantasizing about this at all.

Still, he can't stop himself from imagining Andrew saying, _I_ _should make you pay for lying._ And Neil would pay, however Andrew wanted him to. On his knees. On his back. On his feet, between the shelves.

 _"Because anyone would kill for a chance to scene with a Dom as experienced as Jean. Because I won't be the one to take that experience from you,"_ Andrew says, halting Neil's imagination. _"B_ _ecause I'm not good for you."_

It's not fair for Andrew to say things like that, not when Neil is trying so goddamned hard to stop himself from saying the exact same thing. But hearing those words has a chilling effect on Neil, and he gathers whatever scraps of self-control he has left. He can't keep undressing Andrew in his mind at every opportunity if they're going to be friends. Sure, he's unused to setting boundaries - that's actually why he can't wait for a Dom of his own to tell him when enough is enough. But right now, he needs to learn how to draw the line with Andrew, so he does. 

"You know what? No. If you want this to work, you can't say shit like that. You can't tell me you're not good for me. You don't fucking know me, okay? If you knew half the shit I've done, you wouldn't say that. Let me decide what's good for me. Don't tell me to scene with Jean because you think I'm too fragile to scene with you or whatever. And don't say it's okay because you feel like being a martyr. Just ... don't say it's okay if it's not. Don't fucking lie to me." 

_"Remember what I said about bratty subs?"_ Andrew asks abruptly. Neil doesn't, but the question must be rhetorical because Andrew doesn't wait for his response. _"I said they were a headache, and I was fucking right."_

"That didn't answer my question at all." 

_"You could do worse than Jean,"_ Andrew says. 

"Probably" Neil says, trying not to smirk. "You, for instance." 

_"Me, for instance,"_ Andrew agrees. 

There's something very intimate about the silence that follows, with Neil jammed between wire racks of surplus bar supplies and Andrew breathing softly into the receiver from somewhere across town. It's only the two of them, sharing this moment where things don't feel so wrong. Solitude has never felt quite so familiar, and Neil wants to slip into this space of wordless existence for as long as possible.

 _"Jean can give you what I can't,"_ Andrew says after a while. _"Don't overthink this_ _. Take what you need from him, without anyone else's permission. If he and Jeremy want to scene with you, and you want to scene with them, don't let anyone else - especially me - stand in the way of that."_

It sounds oddly like a command, but it's wrapped in soft hesitation. Andrew's words are rarely careless, and these are no exception. Neil turns them over in his mind, looking for some kind of vulnerability, but he can't find one. Andrew is being genuine. And somehow, he understands exactly what Andrew means.

This isn't permission to scene with another Dom, but he feels absolutely certain that he's making the right decision when he hangs up.

\---

Neil shows up to Eden's out of character. He's in black on black on black on black. Black boots, black leather crop top, matte black nails, black shorts with _slut_ written across the ass in black glittery letters. Thin black barrettes to frame his face. Black eyeliner.

There's no collar, no choker or necklace or ribbon around his neck. No garter belts, no stockings. Nothing that could get in the way. He wants to play _hard._ , and he won't let his outfit get in the way of that. Plus, Jean was rather specific about what Neil would be able to wear during their scene for his own safety. But even without a collar, he looks and feels like sex, is intoxicated by the possibilities unfolding before him by time he arrives at Eden's. 

Predictably, Jean isn’t at the door tonight. Instead, one of the other bouncers offers Neil the wristbands, and he takes the participant and submissive bands before heading inside to throw his jeans and sweater into a locker, giving himself one last once-over to make sure his ass is hanging out of his shorts just enough. 

Inside the club, the music is louder than usual. The stage isn’t set up for a show, and Roland isn’t at the bar. It feels both foreign and familiar as Neil moves silently through the crowd. Andrew is nowhere to be seen, which is probably for the best. Since their call a few nights ago, they haven't spoken, and Neil still hasn't seen Andrew in person since before he scened with Roland. Neil expected as much, especially since Jean explained Andrew needed _space_ to _think_ , but there will always be a part of Neil that harbors a stupid crush, the part that hopes beyond reason that Andrew will finally claim all that Neil can offer. 

"Neil," a cool voice interrupts his thoughts. 

He spins around to find Jean already holding the keys to the VIP section, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a chest harness. It's the first time Neil's seen Jean in so little clothing, and it's just as jarring as everything else at Eden's tonight - out of place, but not unpleasant. Just unexpected. 

Neil swallows dryly. "You guys ready?" 

Jean nods. "And you?" 

"Yeah," he says. "I am." 

With that, Jean sets off towards the VIP section, expecting Neil to follow. A small part of Neil is disappointed Jean isn't treating him like Jeremy, like his sub, but he supposes that makes sense. Neil isn't Jean's sub, after all. He's Jeremy and Jean's play partner for the night - something both Jeremy and Jean had made clear beforehand. That was fine with Neil; he wasn't hoping to insert himself into their dynamic permanently. But a gnawing feeling in his chest kept creeping back every time Neil thought about what Andrew had told him: _Jean can give you what I can't._ At first, he'd believed Andrew. After all, who would know what Andrew could offer him better than Andrew himself? But then he realized that maybe Andrew had misunderstood what Neil wanted. Because despite all of Neil's attempts to convince himself that he and Andrew could just be friends, Neil couldn't ignore the growing sense of trust and understanding between them. He couldn't ignore the way that with each passing day, he felt more sure that Andrew _was_ the Dom for him. 

Above all else, Neil hopes tonight will be the final test to prove whether he can satisfy himself by submitting to a Dom in a non-sexual way. He doesn't want to end this like his scene with Roland, where he'd gotten so caught up in sex and trying to enjoy the moment that he forgot who he was with. He wants to focus on the act of submitting and serving a Dom tonight, and when they'd set up this scene, Jean was more than willing to oblige that. 

Not that the scene would be without sex. It just wouldn't involve Neil. 

When Jean opens the door to their private room, Jeremy is already kneeling by the door in a soft pink kitten collar and matching pale pink outfit. Neil immediately knows he's made the right decision, because even though he knows both of them fairly well, he doesn't feel attracted to either of them. Not that they aren't objectively good looking, not that Neil needs to justify not being sexually attracted to every person he meets, but old habits die hard. He still feels like a letdown sometimes when he can't enjoy casual sex, or just _sex,_ the way everyone else seems to. And tonight, he doesn't want to feel disappointed. He wants to submit. 

Jean makes quick work of reviewing the safewords and stop light system one last time before their scene, and confirms that Neil is still okay with the limits they'd discussed the a few days prior. Jean makes him practice the three non-verbal hand signs he's supposed to use, and Neil does so obligingly: one finger for green, two fingers for pause, open palm for stop. 

Neil agrees to everything one final time before Jean has him kneel on a cushion in front of him as he slides a ball gag into place in Neil's mouth. He checks it, has Neil run through his hand signals again, and then steps back to let Neil adjust for a moment. 

The gag seemed small when Jean first showed it to him, but it more than does the job now that it's in place. It forces Neil's jaw open so that he can’t swallow, and he can feel the saliva trickling down his esophagus. He reflexively tries to swallow a couple of times unsuccessfully and only ends up panting through his nose as saliva pools in the back of his throat. He just needs a minute to adjust, he thinks. He’s never used a gag before, even on his own, and he’s panicking a little bit. He _wants_ to like it. It didn't seem like that big of a deal when Jean had showed him, and Neil thought it would be the easiest part of the scene. 

"Color?" Jean asks before Neil can get wrapped up in his thoughts. 

Neil wants to take a second to think. He doesn't want to say green because he's not ready to move on, he feels kind of like he's choking, but he doesn't want Jean to take it off. In that moment, he remembers _yellow_ is a valid option, to pause, and he quickly flashes two fingers. Jean places a hand on his shoulder, ready to take the gag off if need be. 

"Remember what I told you about gags?" Jean asks, and Neil nods slightly. "Lean forward so you can relax, and it won't feel as suffocating." 

Neil does as he's told, shifts so instead of staring up at Jean, head back, neck exposed, he's staring at the ground. Immediately, drool starts slowly dripping out of the front of the gag, and Neil relaxes, his eyes falling shut. 

"Eyes open, pretty boy," Jean says. Neil's instinct is to look up at Jean to apologize, but Jean's hand comes to rest on the back of Neil's neck to keep his face down. "If you want the gag to stay in, keep your head down and your eyes on the floor. If you look up, your saliva will go down your throat again."

Neil relaxes a little into the gag instead of fighting against it. It still feels foreign and a little uncomfortable, but the stretch in his jaw feels divine. His eyes water as he stares down at the floor, a drop of saliva catching on his chin as he blinks back tears, but he manages to steady his breathing and stops clenching his throat. It takes a little concentration since all of the sensations are new to him, but he realizes the more he relaxes, the easier it is to tolerate the gag. His chin is spit-slicked already, but he doesn’t even care. He never expected to enjoy drooling on himself, but the more he relaxes into the position Jean has him in, hands on his knees, head bent, eyes downcast, the more he feels like he's a real sub. He changes his hand signal to one finger - green - and nods without looking up when Jean asks if he’s sure. Unexpectedly, Jean then praises him for using his signals so well.

"Pretty boy, you're doing so well for using your hand signals. Do you remember what's next?" Jean asks. 

Neil hesitates, trying to focus on the scene instead of the feeling of calm that's started to settle over him. The gag was only the first part of the scene. Binding Neil was the second. Behind him, Neil can hear Jean rifling through a duffel bag, the unmistakable sound of a coiled rope hitting the floor as Jean drops it next to Neil. He nods eagerly, ready to accept the ropes. 

He's grateful that Jean explained exactly what would happen to Neil during the scene so meticulously beforehand. His rules had been simple: obey all commands, do not beg, do not touch, and use his hand signals liberally. Jean didn’t give an explanation for his rules beyond safety, but as a Dom, he doesn’t really owe Neil an explanation other than _because I said so._ This is the part of submitting that Neil has wondered about - the give and take, the purposeful exchange of power - and it’s easier than he expected to let Jean take the lead. 

Jean takes his time to check with Neil each time he moves onto the next step. Before he knows it, Neil is gagged and bound in ropes, his forearms tied together behind his back by an intricate series of rope knots that connect to a second length of rope wound around his chest to create a harness. The effect is almost completely immobilizing, and only Neil's legs remain free, along with his hands, which are pressed palm-to-palm behind his back. The pounding bass from the club below them vibrates through Neil as Jean repositions Neil slightly on his cushion, making sure his knees aren't touching the hard floor. 

As a final touch, Jean tucks a jingle bell into one of Neil’s hand as a failsafe - just in case Neil forgets his hand signs - and explains that if Neil shakes it or drops it, the scene will stop immediately. Neil nods once in affirmation that he remembers, and Jean has him run through his hand signs with his free hand once more. When Neil complies, Jean tests the binding on Neil's wrists and arms to make sure the ropes aren't too tight. Satisfied, he moves on to Jeremy.

It's slow work to bind two subs, but Jeremy isn't bound nearly as much as Neil is. Instead of his entire chest and both arms, Jeremy is only bound by his wrists, which Jean ends up using to immobilize Jeremy's hands by hooking the remaining rope around a hook in the ceiling and then around an anchor on the floor. By the time Jean returns to Neil, he is already blissed out, relishing in the ache of his jaw against the gag and the tug of the rope against his forearms and chest when he squirms. Jean’s ropes are rough enough that when Neil strains against them, they have a little bit of a bite. He can already tell that if he really tried to struggle or escape, they’ll leave a mark. He tries to keep as still as possible - not because he cares about leaving marks, but because every time Jean checks on him and Neil isn’t straining against his bindings, Jean murmurs to him in French _, good boy_. Neil can’t help but glow at the praise, even as saliva drips from his chin and Jean catches it with his thumb. 

"Ready, pretty boy?" Jean asks, and Neil nods without looking up, holding his submissive posture perfectly. Then, still with his hand resting lightly on Neil's jaw, Jean turns to Jeremy. "Ready baby?" 

Jeremy isn’t gagged, which means he has the luxury to respond. "Yes, Sir." 

Neil is used to watching Kevin submit to Thea, and he's seen Jeremy submit to Jean as well, but never so politely and quickly. Jeremy is usually full of energy and willing to challenge his Dom gently in public, teasing Jean with his outfits when he's working or pushing Jean for permission to do _more._ It's probably more surprising to see Jeremy so docile because Neil had always assumed they'd be the same kind of sub in private: hard to shut up, hard to wrangle, hard to control. Then again, Neil is the one gagged and bound and sat on the floor in a classically submissive posture, and all it took was a few kind words from Jean. Maybe he's more submissive than he originally assumed. 

Neil knows exactly what is going to happen next. With Jeremy’s bound hands anchored above his head, Jeremy has just enough slack that he can kneel fully to take the pressure off of his wrists and arms, but can't move his arms out of place. Jean slips a small rubber ball into Jeremy’s hand and instructs him to drop it if any of the ropes shift or his arms start to go numb, and Jeremy gives his assent. Jean check’s Neil’s hand sign one last time, and Neil is fine. Jean is going to fuck Jeremy in the face while Neil remains perfectly still on his cushion, bound and gagged and unable to look up at Jeremy or Jean. He'll have to listen to them and trust that Jean is watching Neil's hand signals the entire time. Although, as Jean explained beforehand, if Neil is uncomfortable, he can also stand at any time to put a stop to the scene. Neil appreciates that there are so many ways to signal his discomfort, which makes it all the more relaxing to simply sink into the sounds of Jean unzipping his pants and beginning to (presumably, since Neil can't see much from his spot on the floor) fuck into Jeremy's mouth. 

Except Neil isn't entirely obedient. He's curious about the soft moans coming from Jeremy, and the rough sucking sound of skin and saliva, the soft groans as Jean praises Jeremy for his cooperation. 

"You like that, baby?" Jean says, and Neil can't help but looking up at them. 

Jean has one hand on Jeremy's jaw, holding his head in place as he drives his cock into Jeremy's mouth. That, plus the ropes binding his hands, keep Jeremy mostly in place as Jean thrusts slowly forward into his mouth. Neil had expected something hard and fast and humiliating. He'd expected to see Jeremy a dribbling mess of sweat and tears and snot and cum, like Neil had seen in porn, but the scene in front of him is the softest, most gentle face-fucking Neil has ever witnessed. Not to mention it's technically the only one he's witnessed, since the rest were all online, but - 

Whatever. The point is Jeremy looks fucked out. His face is completely relaxed as Jean moves his hips in a slow, deliberate roll to slide his cock past Jeremy's parted lips, murmuring soft encouragement as Jeremy takes it effortlessly. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and reverent as he takes Jean's entire length. 

"Fuck, you feel so good," Jean says. 

Jeremy moans, letting his eyes fall shut briefly as he hollows his cheeks around Jean's cock. It's all so unhurried that if it weren't for the ropes binding Jeremy in place or the collar around Jeremy's neck or the harness on Jean's chest, Neil could've forgotten they're in the middle of a BDSM scene.

"Eyes open, baby, we're just about to get started," Jean says, his hand drifting up from Jeremy's chin until he's barely brushing his thumb across Jeremy's cheek in a careful gesture. Immediately, Jeremy opens his eyes again and blinks up at him, and Jean asks, "You ready?" 

Jeremy nuzzles his head into Jean's palm, staring up at him the entire time as he keeps his lips wrapped softly around Jean's cock. It's answer enough for Jean, who starts fucking into Jeremy's face harder. Jeremy's body goes pliant, letting his weight rest forward on his knees until the only thing keeping him upright is the rope around his wrists. It's beautiful, and Neil is awed by how in-sync they are. 

Before the scene, Jean told Neil what Jeremy's safewords and non-verbal safewords were so he'd be informed, but Neil hadn't realized how different they were than his own hand signals. He paid minimal attention when Jean had said Jeremy would use a variation of the _tap-once-for-yes_ system to give positive consent. It wasn't something Neil focused on, because he assumed it would work the same as his hand signals. But now he realizes that it's nothing like the stoplight system, because unlike the scenes Neil's watched on the main stage, Jean is asking for permission before he tries anything. Instead of doing what he wants and waiting for his sub to retract consent, he Doms Jeremy proactively. 

And their system is so much more than the words or signals they use. Clearly, it's been refined over years of practice, and they're both so in-tune with each other that Neil can't help but be jealous of their bond. Jean is so carefully observant of Jeremy's every reaction that he knows when Jeremy is reaching his limits before Jeremy even needs to signal him to slow down or stop. For Neil, the safewords come first. They're a reassurance that he'll be listened to, a crutch that he clings to in order to know he'll be listened to and cared for - a necessary reassurance. For Jeremy, safewords are a backup to his Dom's intuition - a partner who's spent so many hundreds of hours scening and getting to know his sub that the trust and understanding playing out in front of Neil right now is immeasurable.

Not that Neil thinks Jean would ever scene with Jeremy without using safewords. He can just tell by watching them that Jean doesn't Dom in the stereotypical way. Jean isn't taking whatever he can get from Jeremy. He isn't pushing Jeremy's limits to a breaking point. Even now, fucking into Jeremy's face, he's careful. And that realization - that a sub could have so much power during a scene, that a Dom could have so much care - makes Neil's heart ache in a good way. He wants this. He wants _exactly_ this. He fell in love with BDSM because as a sub, he thought he would always have the power to stop things if they went too far. Now, he's falling in love with it all over again because he's realizing that it can be so much more than that. This practiced exchange of power between two people is what Neil wants. He won't settle for anything less in a Dom, even if it takes forever to find one who'll scene with him like this.

Jean pulls out of Jeremy's mouth completely then, and Neil frowns, unsure why he paused. 

"Color,” Jean demands in a low voice, and Jeremy pants out his response, _green,_ between gulps of air. His chin is spit-slicked and there are tear tracks on his cheeks, but he looks up at Jean with an intense kind of longing. Jean only _tsks_ at him. "You know what happens when you close your eyes twice."

Jeremy nods once, eagerly, and Jean runs his hand along Jeremy’s chin. Jeremy shuts his mouth without being told to, still staring up at Jean with unconcealed excitement. For a second, Neil is confused because Jean hasn't given Jeremy a command. He expected the face-fucking to continue, but then Jean slaps Jeremy hard across the cheek. 

The slap startles Neil as much as it arouses him. That Jean was able to see Jeremy begging him silently for something _more_ , that he knew what Jeremy wanted and wordlessly told Jeremy to close his jaw so he could safely give it to him … Neil knows now why everyone trusts Jean so much, why they all say he’s a great Dom, why the subs Neil’s talked to have said Jeremy was so lucky to have such a great Dom. 

In that moment, Neil is so relaxed from the gag and ropes and the submissive position he's been commanded to hold that his excitement is only a natural extension of his submission, combined with watching a Dom treat his sub the way Neil wants to be treated by his own (hypothetical) Dom. For the first time, Neil feels completely relaxed in his own skin. His entire focus is on the scene in front of him. He's not worried about how he looks, covered in his own drool. The amount of concentration needed to keep his head in position so he doesn't choke while wearing the gag, coupled with the effort of keeping his body in the submissive position Jean had instructed him to stay in, means he simply can't worry about anything else. He's so wrapped up in the scene in front of him that he's unable to stop the low groan from escaping his throat as his erection throbs painfully. It's the best kind of torture to watch someone else have what he wants. His eyes slip shut as he feels himself sinking into himself, completely sated despite his persistent arousal. 

Unfortunately, that means Neil is breaking one of Jean's rules. 

“Eyes open, Neil," Jean commands him. "Color, _now,_ or the gag’s out.”

Neil opens his eyes immediately, silently begging for forgiveness as he ignores the burn of arousal as he flashes one finger carefully to Jean, showing he’s okay, he's still green. He just wants Jean to call him _pretty boy_ again and go back to fucking Jeremy's mouth while Neil lets time float by. Jean considers Neil's response for a moment, then looks back to Jeremy, who’s still strung up and panting, looking completely debauched. 

"Two uncooperative subs," Jean muses to himself. To Jeremy, he says, " _M_ _on chéri,_ you know the rules." 

Jean lets his hand fall to Jeremy's neck as he glances at the ropes around Jeremy's wrists, and Jeremy leans into his touch briefly. Jean nods, accepting Jeremy's wordless assent and he undoes the ropes from around Jeremy's wrists, freeing him completely, before he turns to focus on Neil. 

“Your eyes stay open or this ends,” Jean reminds him. Neil nods and shows his _green_ hand sign to reassure Jean he’s okay. Jean tugs once on the ropes around Neil's arms as a sharp reminder to obey, as though he knows exactly which part of the rope to tug on to tighten the crux of rope around the widest part of Neil’s forearm. Neil groans at the way the sensation; it feels like it’s digging into his muscles. As soon as Jean lets go, it goes back to a smooth caress, but that isn’t _enough_. Neil strains against the restraints, trying to recreate the feeling of Jean tugging the rope into his skin, but the ropes pull evenly across both of his arms. 

A small whimper escapes Neil’s mouth, and Jean finally delivers on the promise Neil has been waiting for all evening. He pulls Neil up roughly by the ropes across his chest and shoves him towards the wall, bending Neil over the arm of the couch until he's face down, ass up. Now, his drool puddles on the cushion of the couch as his face is pressed into the fabric, the gag still snug in his mouth. Jean stays out of his line of sight as he talks, tugging Neil's shorts down until his ass is exposed to the cool air.

“We’ll start with five. Because this is punishment for disobeying one of my rules, you will not cry yet,” Jean tugs harshly on the restraints around Neil's wrists. "Show me your color." 

Neil nods, even though he still can’t see Jean, and flashes a single finger for green. He still wants this. From the beginning, Jean explained that Neil would be spanked at some point towards the end of the scene, and now that he's finally faced with that reality, Neil is as nervous as he is turned on by the prospect of being put in his place. He's relieved that Jean is following through on his promise to spank Neil, but also that he's holding Neil accountable for following his rules. It's reassuring that if Neil makes a mistake, he can be forgiven. It's straightforward.

So he obeys. He submits to Jean’s pace, lets Jean spank him one painful stroke at a time, and Neil accepts each blow. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t whine when Jean pauses in between each blow to run his fingers across Neil’s exposed ass, soothing the pain. Not that the gag would allow him to do any of that, but still, it never crosses his mind. He just wants _more._

By the time Jean gets to five, Neil's skin stings in an intoxicating way and he can’t stop the whimpers slipping out between each blow, the moan that comes when Jean presses his palm flat against Neil’s raw ass. It's his first time being _really_ spanked, and Jean isn't taking it easy on him. Each blow is accompanied by a sharp sound as skin makes contact against skin. He can only imagine how he looks from Jean’s perspective: his ass undoubtedly red, his arms still tightly bound behind his back, his face still full of drool from the gag. There's no embarrassment, which is surprising. A small part of him worried it would be weird to let Jean Dom him in front of Jeremy, but it's not. 

Jean kneads his hand on Neil's hip, digging into the muscle to relax Neil further. Before Jean can say anything, Jeremy intervenes. 

“Sir, I think Neil could still use a few more,” he says in a quiet voice. It's the first time since Jean started face-fucking Jeremy that Jeremy has spoken up, and his voice is wrecked.

“Really?” Jean asks, his voice rumbling behind Neil. He waits silently, his skin singing with arousal at the prospect of just a few more blows to his ass. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jeremy says far too demurely for this topic. 

"Should I take out the gag yet?" Jean asks Jeremy. 

"I don't know, Sir," Jeremy says. "Maybe you could ask him." 

"Do you think you've earned the gag?" Jean asks, his hand coming to rest on the small of Neil's back. 

Neil nods eagerly, not wanting to lose the gag yet. He's so close to completely letting go and sinking into the feeling of Jean spanking him. Before Jean stopped spanking him, Neil had been on the verge of relaxing bonelessly into the couch, his body accepting the pattern of pain and relief with each hit. 

“Color, Neil,” Jean demands.

Neil flashes his hand sign, holding it steady, until Jean taps his thigh lightly, playfully.

"Someone's eager," Jean says, but he acquiesces. "I'll leave the gag in, and I'll continue spanking you until you cry. Jeremy, come over and kneel next to the couch. You will tell me when you see tears." 

Neil wants to object, because there are dried tear stains on his cheeks already from when he'd first put the gag on, and his eyes are still leaking a little, but Jeremy obediently settles right in Neil's field of vision and smiles gently at him. 

"He's not crying yet," Jeremy announces. 

“Can you take more?" Jean asks Neil. "Be honest. You will not be punished if you say no.” 

Neil flashes his hand signal again, very firm in his _green_ as he waits for Jean to start. 

Jean takes his hand off of Neil’s ass, and Neil tenses, waiting for Jean's hand against his ass. He almost turns his head to see if Jean is still there when Jean's palm lands on his thigh this time, the sound a sharp crack in the silence of the room as Neil swallows his squeak of surprise behind the gag. Before he can take a breath, Jean hits his thigh again. Neil doesn’t want him to stop. He lets himself get lost in the sensations, each blow coming sooner than the last until he's completely lost count. 

Soon, he's panting around the gag, his dick painfully hard and trapped against the arm of the couch. He could almost come from this alone, but he doesn't. He floats, completely submissive as he lets Jean spank him. He doesn't even realize he's started to cry until Jeremy puts a hand against his cheek, wiping tears from his face as he says softly, "Stop." 

Jean doesn't spank Neil again. Instead, he rubs something cold and wet against the skin of Neil's ass and thighs, massaging him slowly as Jeremy unbuckles the gag from Neil's face and pulls a cloth out of nowhere to wipe off all of the snot and tears and spit. Neil doesn't even register Jean untying the ropes from his arms and chest until Jeremy slowly rolls him onto his side, bringing his shoulders forward gently so Neil can work out the tension from being restrained in one place for so long. 

“Thank you, Sir,” is all Neil can say as Jean watches Jeremy take care of him. His voice cracks, and Jeremy shushes him. 

After a few minutes of fussing, Jeremy has Neil curled up on the couch. His shorts are tugged back into place, his face squeaky-clean, and his ass is lotioned to within an inch of its life. Jeremy looks sleepy as he sinks into the couch next to Neil, and Jean takes an oversized shirt out of his bag and hands it to Jeremy, who quickly puts it on.

Jean settles next to Jeremy, pulling his sub into his lap and stroking his hair as Neil drifts lazily on the couch, his chin resting on the pillow as he shuts his eyes. Jean settles a warm hand on Neil's back while he continues to stroke Jeremy's hair, and Neil thinks this moment couldn't get any better. Even though he didn't get off during the scene, he's completely satisfied and exhausted. Neil nuzzles into Jean's touch slightly, unable to be embarrassed at his own neediness right now. 

Eventually, Neil stretches, feeling the slight ache from overexertion settling into his muscles. As much as he wants to stay here forever in this little bubble of perfection, he doesn't know what time it is, and he wants nothing more than to fall asleep in his own bed for the next ten hours. Jean tugs on Jeremy's hair slightly to bring him back to the present.

“You were lovely tonight, _mon amour,_ ” Jean mumbles as he presses a kiss to Jeremy's temple as he wakes up. Then, to Neil, “You followed my rules very well, pretty boy.” 

“I tried my best, Sir,” Neil says, blushing at the praise. 

Jean nods, resting a hand on Neil’s forehead for a moment. “I need to make a phone call. Will you two be okay here for a few minutes?”

Jeremy nods, slipping off of Jean's lap so he can leave, and he ends up sleepily curled around Neil.

His thighs and ass ache, and when he moves, the fabric against skin draws a hiss from his mouth, but he loves every second of it. He feels like he could live in this moment forever, and lets himself drift as Jeremy fusses over Neil's hair, rearranging the black clips that he had completely forgotten about. 

Once he's nestled against Jeremy's chest, Neil wonders if this is what Andrew meant when he said Jean could give him what Andrew couldn't. He tries to remember how Andrew is with his subs, but can't seem to find any memories of Andrew at Eden's. Instead, he keeps picturing Andrew driving the Maserati, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift as splashes of light from the streetlamps cross Andrew's face. He keeps glancing over his shoulder at Neil and says, _sleep,_ until Neil doesn't know if he's remembering something or imagining it. 

In his current vulnerable state, Neil would obey any order - imagined or otherwise - so he does as he's told and drifts to sleep in the safety of Jeremy's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update incoming in t-minus 2 weeks ... hope no one will be too upset if Andrew's back again next chapter!! 
> 
> Writers' block is very real right now since I'm trying to clean up the the next few chapters and I'm realizing how many different places I've been writing this fic?? Like I have like five separate notes on my phone and at least 3 google docs because my executive functioning is nonexistent lol. Hopefully things will get moving along once a draft is consolidated into one place so I can focus more on writing again and less on organizing.
> 
> In the meantime, thanks for reading and being so patient with this fic :) I've been loving all the comments lately, and to anyone who's waiting for Neil and Andrew to stop being dumbshits, chapters 9 + 10 will hopefully provide some relief!!!


	9. It's Complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp. turns out this is not an andrew chapter, it is just a regular ol' neil chapter. however I promise the favorite Minyard will be back next chapter!! (he is the favorite Minyard, right????)
> 
> For some reason this was very difficult to write? I spent so long with the first draft of this just feeling _wrong_ and I couldn't figure out why. So after ten days staring at a bunch of crap words and being frustrated and stuck, I realized if I disliked the original plot of this chapter that much, I could just get rid of it. Like that was an option all along?? And then I ended up with this, which flows so much better with the rest of the story than what I originally had here (let's just say the first version of this chapter was bad). Pour one out for my braincells tonight for even coming up with draft 1 in the first place haha
> 
> warnings/tags: Neil has sub drop the day after his scene. Descriptions of his previous bruises/allusions to his scene with Jean + Jeremy.

Neil wakes up very sore the next morning, but Jean had given him specific instructions for taking care of himself after their scene. He gently rubs aloe into the angry red patches on his ass and thighs. Every time he moves, the ache reminds him of the night before in a very pleasant way.

Thankfully, it's the weekend. He should be able to inconspicuously spend most of the day laying on his stomach on the couch, watching TV and pretending that he doesn’t have any homework due the next week - that is, if his roommate wasn't a nosy asshole with rocks for brains. 

As soon as Kevin comes in from his morning run, he cocks his head to the side like a goddamned golden retriever and stares at Neil on the couch.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” he says as he sets a pot of coffee to brew. Neil only grunts a little in response, his face still squished against the soft cushion as he watches Kevin with a lazy gaze.

It's obvious that Kevin has already drawn his own conclusions about what Neil is doing. But he stalls. He takes his time choosing a mug for his coffee while it brews, and then adds just a splash of creamer before he sits on the armrest next to Neil's feet, nudging Neil's legs to the side to make room for himself on the couch. Once he's good and settled, he takes a long sip from his mug before speaking.

“So what happened?” Kevin asks, visibly steeling himself in preparation for Neil’s answer. 

Neil wants to tell Kevin to stop treating him like he’s incapable of taking care of himself, but he keeps his mouth shut for once. He tugs on the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing the curve of his ass, stained dark purple and red with the bruises from Jean's hand. Not that he should have any reason to suspect it was Jean - for all Neil's told Kevin (which is nothing), he could've scened with Andrew, which is basically halfway to being collared in Kevin's mind. Maybe Kevin's just trying to figure out how much money he's going to owe Thea. 

“Scared of losing your bet?” Neil says cheekily. 

Kevin only shoves him, which sends Neil scampering to stay on the couch. He barely catches himself before sliding a safe distance from Kevin as he pulls his sweatpants back up with a hiss. 

“Don’t be an asshole," Kevin says. "I know it wasn’t Minyard.” 

“Then why ask, Mr. Know-It-All?"

"Just tell me who it was," Kevin sighs. 

“Jean." The name is clunky on Neil's tongue, filled with new memories from last night. It should tell Kevin everything he needs to know, except Neil's probably lied to him a few too many times, since his knee-jerk reaction is to accuse Neil of lying.

He shakes his head at Neil. “No way. Jean would never do that without -” 

“I'm serious,” Neil says.

This time, Kevin reaches over and tugs down Neil’s sweatpants himself, inspecting the bruises closer. He presses his thumb into one until it blanches white, then waits for the red color to return. 

“That's a fucking handprint," Kevin says incredulously, eyeing the bruise on Neil's thigh. “He spanked you. _J_ _ean_ spanked you.” He pauses. “Was Jeremy there?” 

It's kind of insulting to insinuate that Neil would scene with Jean behind Jeremy's back. Especially since, first and foremost, he's friends with both of them. Then again, after his scene with Roland, Kevin would be justified in lowering his opinion of Neil's judgement and self-restraint. 

"Yeah," Neil says. "I'm not that stupid." 

Kevin gives him a look that clearly says _oh but you are,_ and almost immediately the pleasant high from last night disappears. It's like a switch flips inside his brain, and the pain sharpens in a way that makes Neil's chest constrict as he tries to find a way to explain that last night was a good thing. He knew going into it that neither Jean nor Jeremy was looking to keep him as a sub, which was fine. He didn't - _doesn't_ \- want to be their sub. But now the whole thing feels cheapened. Everything he did right, everything good he felt, is gone when Kevin looks at him with pity in his eyes. Like he's worried than Neil already wants _more._

It makes Neil's stomach turn because Kevin's right. When Jean had asked him _what do you actually want?,_ Neil thought that submitting to a Dom as experienced as Jean would make him feel better. And it did - for a few hours. But now, very suddenly, he feels stupid for having to lick his own wounds. He still doesn't have a Dom to help him the morning after, to tell him what a good job he did, to tell him he's worth coming back for. 

All he wants is for someone to explain why it feels like he's carved a little piece of himself out that he'll never get back. 

“Fine,” Kevin huffs impatiently, after Neil's retracted so far back into his shell that he forgets what they're talking about. “Tell me, don't tell me, I'm not your fucking therapist. Just don't do something stupid that ends up hurting yourself in the end.” 

“Too late for that,” Neil tries to smirk, but it's a feeble attempt to cover the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't work. He swallows back a growing sense of pathetic neediness, his sentences clipped down the bare minimum. "Seriously. Don’t worry. I’m fine, bruises aside. It was a fun night. That’s all.” 

He sounds like a robot, reading off a script. Kevin squints at him for a moment, probably trying to decide if it's worth pushing Neil on the lie. He's very clearly not fine right now, and Kevin probably already knows that. 

But apparently, Neil's lying skills are still up to par, because Kevin finally relents. His tone is assaultingly casual as he picks at a loose thread on the couch cushion. 

"Are you staying home tonight?” 

“Not a chance in hell," Neil says, rolling onto his front to show off his shirt, that says _kiss my ass_ in a Gothic font. It would usually make him smile, but right now it feels, like everything else, hollow. He suspects that staying home alone all night will only make this feeling worse. 

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Kevin mutters as he drags a hand over his face. “Fine. I'll come with, only because I don't trust you on your own right now. Let me call Thea to get permission.” 

As Kevin walks out of the room, Neil shouts over his shoulder, "I never said that was an invitation!" 

But he doesn't have the energy to protest when Kevin drags him out of the apartment several hours later.

\---

Neil shows up to Eden's as an accessory on Kevin's arm. He's pulled out all the stops in dangerously revealing high-waisted shorts. Washed out denim. And they don’t even pretend to cover most of his ass, leaving the bulk of his bruises on display as Kevin leads him through the club. A sub grabs Neil's hand and asks him to twirl, which he does on a bit of a delay, trying to force a smile while Kevin rolls his eyes, and the sub mutters _lucky_ under her breath when she sees the smudges of bruises across his ass. Neil feels anything _but_ lucky, though.

He sulks for a long while after Kevin orders drinks and gets them both settled at the bar. Jean had told them at the front door that Jeremy wouldn't be around since he had been called in to work, which killed the very hope Neil had been holding onto. He'd hoped Jeremy could help him burn a few hours by looking through the newest restock of kitten collars from the shop Jeremy buys from online. But now there's no Jeremy and Kevin isn't the type to fawn over shades of pastel velvet and lace and leather. By the time Kevin's first round of shots shows up, Neil feels helplessly adrift.

It's not helped by the attention he's getting from multiple Doms. Regret isn't a word Neil uses lightly, but he's starting to wonder if it applies to the aching feeling in his chest every time he looks down at his _sub_ and _participant_ wristbands. Before his scene with Jean, he'd been practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of showing off his bruises afterwards, a physical testament to his pain tolerance and obedience. Now, the violent streak of red across his skin doesn't declare _I earned this_ to anyone.

No, they just say _unwanted_ _._

“Show-off,” Kevin mutters after the third Dom in as many minutes comes over to compliment Neil on his bruises. It's a brazen attempt at distracting Neil from his thoughts, but it works.

“It’s not my problem that Thea makes you cover up so much,” Neil says. “Ask her permission if you want to show off sometime.” 

“And who gave _you_ permission to show those off?” A voice asks behind them. Neil doesn’t have to turn around to immediately recognize it as Andrew’s, and the way Kevin’s face comically falls only proves that Neil is right. 

Usually, Neil would jump at the chance to tell Andrew off, but tonight, the familiarity of Andrew's bored voice only makes Neil's chest ache _more._ Because Andrew still doesn't care.

“I’m not owned,” Neil says, his voice on the verge of a snarl. He keeps his back to Andrew, unwilling to risk bursting into tears the second they make eye contact. Neil can already feel the catharsis in the way his throat is constricting, threatening to fall apart in a very public, very humiliating kind of way. 

Plus, Neil's stubborn streak is a mile wide, and even on the verge of tears, he's still not about to put away what he came here to show off. Which sets him off more, because he was supposed to be able to enjoy this. He wanted Andrew to see what he’s missing out on, bruises and all. Even as he tilts his neck to the side with an almost inaudible whine, a very slight show of submission to Andrew that he can't hold back, he feels disgusted by the transparency of his insecurity right now, like red ink spilled across his skin.

If only to spite himself, Neil belatedly, weakly, adds, “I can give myself permission.” 

Before Andrew can respond, Kevin jumps in, and even Neil is surprised at the thinly veiled animosity in his tone.

“Where’s your latest flavor of the month, Andrew?” 

It's enough to distract Neil from whatever internal crisis he's battling, and he turns to watch Andrew react. He isn't disappointed when Andrew shifts his glare from Neil towards Kevin, folding his arms and straightening to his full height. Even though he’s shorter than Kevin and Neil, the power radiating from him is dangerous and the challenge in his posture is clear. Kevin immediately - probably reflexively - drops his gaze to the ground and says softly, “Sorry, Sir.” 

As usual, Neil feels like he’s missing something when Andrew grins and says, “How disappointing.”

Then, he pulls out his phone and types out a quick text, all while keeping his predatory smile in place. A few seconds later, Kevin’s phone rings.

He just stares at the screen blankly as the it vibrates in his hand. 

"Better answer that," Andrew tells him. "Wouldn't want to upset her more now, would we?"

Kevin does as he's told.

"Ma'am -" he says. "I didn’t -” There's a pause while he listens to whatever is being said on the other line. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It was an accident.” He takes a deep breath. “I understand, ma’am."

He passes the phone to Andrew, who takes it with a wicked glint in his eye, listening for several moments. Traitorously, his eyes find Neil's as he says, "Yes, he's here," followed shortly by, "You'd have to ask him." 

And then Neil's being passed the phone and Thea's in his ear. 

"Neil, darling," she hums. "I hear my boy is being a bit of a problem tonight." 

It feels like he's processing everything at half-speed as he sorts through her words. "Andrew -" 

"Not Andrew, sweetheart," Thea says with far more patience than Neil deserves. "Kevin."

"Oh," Neil says flatly. He swallows. "Right." 

"I'm recalling my dog to remind him who holds his leash, if that's okay with you." 

"Kevin?" Neil repeats rather dumbly. 

"Yes, but I hear your usual group of admirers has gone AWOL tonight, so I wanted to know if you want to a ride home ... if that would help." 

Neil glances at Kevin, who's busy downing the last shot from his tray, and tries to resist the urge to impose himself on Andrew. The whole point of coming to Eden's with Kevin had been to stop feeling disgusted with himself, and he can't help but feel he's failed at that, too. Like everything. Then again, he's already dangerously close to admitting something he can't take back easily; he probably shouldn't be left alone with Andrew. It's best to stop temping fate and call it a day. 

"Earth to Neil?" Thea's voice buzzes in his ear. 

"Yeah, I'm still here," Neil says quickly. "I wanna go home." 

There's silence on the other end of the line, and Neil can sense the tension radiating from behind him as Andrew lets out a long, controlled breath.

"No worries," Thea says. "I'll be there in a few minutes. But if you change your mind and decide to stay with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome after all..."

Neil doesn't have it in him to smile at her joke, but he's unable to stop a soft snort at he looks back at Andrew, all blonde hair and exactly five-foot-zero.

By the time Thea hangs up, Kevin has moved from ashamed to angry. 

"Thanks for ruining our night out," he snaps at Andrew. 

" _Kevin,_ " Neil warns, but he's unable to put much bite into his words. 

"You know what? No. We were gonna hang -" he hiccups "- hang out together tonight, Neil. Until he turned into a fucking narc." 

Andrew is unimpressed by Kevin's speech, evident in the way he ignores him completely. 

“And you -” Kevin points to Neil “- don’t think this isn’t your fault, too. She’s only doing this because you're playing with Doms you shouldn't play with since you're incapable of admitting that you’re obsessed with _him_.”

The last word is punctuated by a glare at Andrew. Neil can feel Kevin circling closer to a dangerous truth. He isn’t drunk - Neil's seen him shitfaced before, and this isn't it. Not that it’s any condolence - both drunk Kevin and sober Kevin are brutally honest. The only difference is that drunk Kevin won’t remember what he said the next morning. Neil just hopes that Andrew will look at the array of empty shot glasses in front of Kevin and draw his own conclusions. 

Still, Neil’s temper has never been difficult to provoke, and even now, he can't stop himself when he blurts out, “Yeah? Well, I wasn't the one who called Andrew _Sir.”_

"That doesn't mean you don't want to, does it?" Kevin retorts. "Because that's what you’ve always wanted. What you _really_ want." 

The realization hits Neil like a truck, the pain made beautiful by its simplicity: he wants Andrew.

It’s funny how much the truth hurts once it’s out in the open. Because that’s what it is, right? The pain in his chest, right below his sternum. It’s undeniable tonight: he wants Andrew _._ He's been lying to himself for weeks, trying to believe that being friends with Andrew would be enough. Trying to fix the mixed-up feeling inside by scening with other Doms, or by pretending that Andrew doesn’t exist, or by avoiding Eden’s, or coming to Eden’s more, or having sex or _not_ having sex. He's tried everything, and nothing has fucking worked. It would probably hurt less if Neil didn't already feel like a failed, defective sub. 

Any other night, he would've had something to say. Tonight, he stumbles over his words, desperate to find an excuse because none of this is _fair._

"I just - I -"

Kevin's phone buzzes with a text before Neil can get another word in edgewise. 

"Thea's here. Let’s go." 

Neil doesn’t move. It doesn't matter if it comes from Jean or Kevin or Andrew or Roland - he can't handle the truth right now. He can feel his brain grinding to a halt, caught on a single thought: _I want Andrew._ Over and over and over again, a taunt that continues ad nauseum. Every ghost of pain from last night makes him weak. His bruises don’t ache with pride; they ache with a kind of neediness that he isn't familiar with. Everything he thought he wanted before from being a sub - being controlled, being hurt, being degraded and humiliated and insulted and used - has twisted into a nightmare. He _is_ used, and hurt, and degraded and humiliated. And he doesn't want it anymore. He can't stand being simultaneously so close and so far from everything he's ever wanted. 

What's most unnerving is the emotional crack in Neil's resolve at the realization that he is, once again, leaving alone. It shouldn’t matter; it’s not like he hasn’t gotten used to being alone over the years. But it matters more than anything right now, and that only makes him feel worse. _That’s weakness,_ a small voice says inside his head, which only makes the pain worse. He knows he should be stronger than this, and has no one but himself to blame for letting things get so out of hand. It's not like Andrew was playing games or leading Neil on.

No, Neil did this to himself. He was the one who continued to make a home for Andrew in his heart after Andrew said he wasn’t interested. God knows how many hours he’s spent walking the line between being giving up and giving in, between reasonable and being reckless - and since when did those two things become so difficult to distinguish from each other? He can’t tell anymore what’s right or wrong. He doesn’t know if it’s better to pretend like this never happened - lying, again, but it’s familiar and safe and he needs something concrete to hold onto right now - or if he should just admit to everything. Yes, he wants Andrew, but that shouldn’t be news, right? Because Andrew’s known that since Halloween. Maybe the only pretending that has to happen is Neil, pretending that it doesn’t hurt so much to shrug and say, _yeah, I want you, but so what?_ Not that he can stomach those words right now. Even the thought makes his knees weak.

It was never supposed to be this hard. A small voice in his head says there’s another option, a third option where he lets out the ugly truth of his desire and doesn’t try to minimize or excuse it, but he knows deep down that he can’t do that. It would be nothing but selfish to dump his feelings on Andrew when he knows Andrew doesn’t feel the same. 

And then there’s option four: choke on his words. Because that’s what it feels like right now: he’s suffocating. 

"Neil," Andrew says in a low voice as he steps closer. The space between them feels like an extension of Neil's body and their closeness makes him dizzy, but the contact never comes.

"He's not your _pet_ ," Kevin snaps, taking Neil by the wrist. “We’re going.”

And that's when everything comes together and falls apart.

Neil remembers the way Jean put a hand on Neil's chin and said _pretty boy,_ the way Jeremy had carded his fingers through Neil's hair afterwords, the way it felt for foreign fingers to catch the spit dribbling from his chin, wiping clean his snot-smeared face with nothing but delicate affection. He remembers shutting his eyes and letting the quiet safety of Jeremy's arms send him to sleep. He remembers how it felt to be touched in a way that wasn't meant to destroy him. It's funny, because for the longest time, that's all he knew. 

Don't get him wrong - he wants the sloppiness. He wants the bruises and spit-soaked thighs and gags and punishments and rewards. He wants cum on his eyelashes, and hands on his shoulders pulling him close, telling him what a good little slut he is. More than anything, he wants to crawl into Andrew's lap and wear Andrew's collar and fall apart under Andrew's hands. He wants with such an intensity that it scares him speechless. That’s probably why Andrew doesn’t trust Neil - he’s too desperate, too single-minded in his pursuits - but he can’t help what he wants.

When Neil takes another breath finally, he only catches the tail end of a sentence.

"- need to back the fuck up before I _make you,_ " Andrew growls. 

It takes him a moment to come back to the conversation at hand. Kevin's still holding onto Neil’s wrist, but Andrew is standing between them, a murderous look on his face as he glares at Kevin’s offending hand like he’d rip it off himself given the chance.

"Can't you see you're making it worse?" Andrew snaps, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He clenches a hand at his side. “Give him some fucking _space._ ”

"What the fuck, Neil?" Kevin asks, looking slightly offended and very confused. Still, he drops his hold and Neil shakes out his hand, trying to catch up with whatever just happened. “Are you coming or what?”

Neil knows he's supposed to say something now, but he can’t. The smart thing, the right thing, the most difficult thing, would be to say yes. 

There's a reason no one has ever called Neil a genius.

"I need a cigarette," he mumbles, standing abruptly as the room spins slightly. He doesn't know why he feels so out-of-sorts; he hasn't even drank anything tonight, but the world feels almost hazy, unreal. His hands find his pockets a few seconds too late and he realizes he doesn't have any cigarettes. He stopped bringing them to Eden's ... well, since Halloween, probably. He very purposefully doesn’t think about why. "God, Kevin, where's my pack?" 

"I don't know, I don’t think you brought any -"

Andrew fishes into his pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro's and shakes one loose, raising an eyebrow as he offers it to Neil. Neil's hands shake when he tries to take it.

"You can't smoke in here," Kevin says unhelpfully. Neil couldn't care less. He needs to room to breathe before his mind explodes.

"I’m going outside,” he says to no one in particular as he shoves his way through the crowd, leaving both of them behind. 

"Thea's still waiting," Kevin shouts after him, trying hard to be heard over the music as Neil slips into the darkness. 

It isn’t until the emergency exit door slams shut behind him and he's alone in the back alley with an unlit cigarette that Neil realizes he doesn’t have a light. It’s almost enough motivation to walk around the front of the building and find Thea’s car to just go home. He can crawl into his bed and forget about the entire world for the next week, until this daze has passed.

It's either that, or he can keep making himself miserable for the rest of his goddamned life, and sure, that's dramatic, but he's not exactly at his best right now. He stares at the unlit cigarette in his hand, waiting for everything to be over - the shaking, the nerves, the uncertainty and fear and rejection - but it doesn't stop. It doesn't make sense because he was fine earlier, and that only makes him more frustrated -

Until he hears the casual flick of a lighter, a sound so drenched in memory that Neil almost forgets where he is. It isn’t until the flame comes safely into view that Neil lets out a shaky laugh, on the verge of what must certainly be hysteria. He cups a hand around the end of his cigarette before he can fall apart again. After a few deep breaths, his hands are steady enough to take a long drag from his cigarette, punctuated only by the faint reverberations of bass from inside Eden's.

Andrew waits. He slips the lighter back into his pocket, and his face remains as impassive as ever as he just … waits. As if existing out here with Neil is no more challenging than existing in there. 

Neil just stares at the embers on the tip of his cigarette (Andrew’s cigarette, technically, even though it’s in Neil’s hand), growing dim before his eyes.

“You didn’t have to come out here,” Neil says as the orange glow fades into black. 

"You not know how these work?" Andrew asks, lighting his own cigarette and taking a long drag. 

Neil watches a slow cloud of smoke crawl into the sky as Andrew exhales. For some reason, it's calming, just the two of them. Usually, Andrew pisses him off or riles him up or shuts him down. But tonight, despite the inky feelings of inadequacy in his chest, Neil starts to relax. Something about Andrew puts him at ease, like he doesn't have to worry about anything right now unless he wants to. Slowly, the tension starts leaking from his shoulders first, then his chest and stomach and thighs, almost enough to forget that he'd been upset in the first place. 

“Kevin shouldn’t have said that,” Neil finally says, when Andrew is halfway through his cigarette. “So … yeah. Sorry.” 

It’s not the best apology he’s ever given, but it’s also (sadly) not the worst. 

“Just when I thought you were finally learning …” Andrew drawls. Neil is about to interject, when Andrew blows a cloud of smoke in his face. “I already told you once: don’t apologize for shit other people do.”

Neil is apparently still very far from pulling his head out of his ass, because he says, “Fine. Then I’m sorry I didn’t say it first.” 

“You did, though,” Andrew says without missing a beat. “So my point still stands: stop apologizing when you don’t need to.” 

“But -”

“Neil,” Andrew interrupts, his voice quiet but firm. “Let it go.”

So he does. He lets his mind drift, long enough for him to actually realize that he does want to smoke, but his cigarette has long since gone out. He puts out a hand for Andrew's lighter.

As always, Andrew doesn't cooperate easily. He shakes his head and holds out his own lit cigarette instead. 

When Neil frowns, Andrew explains. "Not wasting another light."

"Of course,” Neil says, not bothering to hide his eye roll.

He sticks his cigarette between his lips and leans forward, waiting for Andrew’s lit cigarette to touch his before he inhales deeply. It works on the second try, and Neil takes a few drags to make sure it keeps burning. 

"My mom used to smoke Sterlings," he says, inspecting his cigarette carefully to distract himself from the last remnants of panic in his chest. When he feels lost like this, it helps to just talk. About anything, really. And for some reason, it feels right to talk about his mom when all he wants is to remember what it felt like to wake up in the middle of the night and smell her cigarettes, a calming reminder that he wasn’t alone, that she was still awake and keeping a lookout to keep him safe. 

"Never heard of 'em." 

Neil snorts. "She was English. They’re sold here, just … hard to find, sometimes. She used to get them shipped.”

“She’s dead, then," Andrew states calmly. 

Neil nods, as though Andrew’s question is no different than asking about the weather. It’s been long enough that when Neil thinks about her now, he doesn’t automatically think of California. Those first few years had been hardest, associating her with the place she hated most. The place she died. 

Tonight, he just thinks about how much he loved the smell of Sterlings and how she’d always click her lighter twice before she actually tried to light a cigarette. It used to be annoying when they were sharing a cramped room in a motel, listening to her chain smoke and double-click her lighter over and over for hours on end. But he’d kill for that now. 

“Mine too,” Andrew says quietly. 

The silence that follows is far from heavy. Now that the oppressive crush of fear and regret and uncertainty is beginning to dissipate, Neil is left with a sort of clarity that is rare in his life. 

"This means we’re done, right?” Neil asks. It doesn’t feel as painful as he expected it to. “After tonight … after this. Because I can't keep doing this.”

Andrew hums noncommittally, glancing at the scars on Neil’s face with a kind of bored indifference that says _stop being so dramatic._ “I already deleted your number. Twice. You want this to stop? Stop calling." 

“Sorry," Neil says, blowing smoke towards the stars above them. “Sorry. It’s just … complicated.” 

That’s what this feeling is: complicated. For so long, he's wanted so little from life that he forgot what true longing feels like, and it's probably a good lesson to learn that he can't always get what he wants. Andrew, however, only stares at the sky. Patiently, Neil realizes with a start. 

Never has he thought that word could apply to someone as severe as Andrew Minyard, but here it does: _patience._

“Don’t be boring, Josten. You’re better than that.” 

" _Ican'tbefriendswithyou_ ," Neil says, his words rushing out of him in a single breath.

"Funny," Andrew says. "Because _you’re_ the one who keeps bringing up being _friends_.” 

It's hardly an eloquent speech, but Neil understands perfectly the weight behind those words as Andrew turns to face him, flicking ash into the breeze as his gaze traces Neil's face slowly. Predatory. 

“I -” Neil pauses, swallows. “Yeah. Because you don’t want to be my Dom.” 

After a long pause, Andrew says, “Yeah? Well, it’s complicated.” 

He takes one final drag from his cigarette, and Neil swears he catches a smirk as Andrew tosses the butt into the ashtray. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Neil says. “Stop stealing my lines.” 

“You're not used to being told no,” Andrew says after a while. Neil doesn’t dare interrupt. Not when Andrew’s staring at him with the kind of intensity that makes Neil want to submit to him. Neil’s silence, however, is apparently enough to make Andrew change his mind. “You should go." 

“Thea probably already left,” Neil says, desperate for any excuse to stay for just a few more minutes. 

“You’re not doing yourself any favors right now,” Andrew says in a low voice. He steps closer and takes the cigarette from between Neil's fingers. After taking a long drag, he stares him straight in the eye and puts it right back in Neil's hand. “She’s waiting out front for you.”

“She - what?” 

“I said she’s waiting.” 

Neil has a sinking feeling that Andrew was somehow involved in that. If it was up to Thea, she’d be halfway across town with Kevin already in order to force Andrew to drive Neil home.

“You asked her to stay,” Neil realizes. "I don't - you don't -" 

He stops. It’s all just a variation on a theme that Neil’s already said a hundred times before: _I’m not afraid of you, I don’t need protecting, you’re not a monster._ Andrew very clearly gets the message from the annoyed look on his face. 

“What do you really want?” Andrew asks, but when Neil doesn’t respond at first, he repeats the question. “Neil. Tell me what you want.” 

They're close enough that Neil can smell Andrew's deodorant and sweat and aftershave, and when Andrew reaches out and takes another drag from _Neil’s_ cigarette, they both breathe in Andrew’s exhale, dizzy from the nicotine and smoke and the cool burn of late-evening air. Neil has to stop himself from closing his eyes and leaning in, intoxicated by Andrew’s very presence. 

“You,” Neil says softly. “Just … you.”

It feels good to say it out loud, even if Neil knows he’s probably going to leave in a few minutes and never talk to Andrew again. He lets himself believe, for a short moment, that Andrew wants this just as much as he does. He forgets about everything except for the unhurried rise and fall of Andrew’s chest as they stand too close for Neil to think about anything but how much he's asking Andrew for when he says _you._

Before last night with Jean, Neil hadn’t experienced firsthand how much power a Dom has over their sub. When he sank to his knees and Jean gagged him and tied him up, Neil had never felt so helpless. But that’s what he wants - someone else to control his pleasure, his pain. He wants Andrew to take everything out of his hands. Free him completely. He wants to sink to his knees, to show Andrew the kind of trust he showed Jean. There’s an edge to Andrew’s almost defensive posture, as though anticipating Neil’s instinct to submit. But Neil isn’t going to push Andrew. If Andrew says no, Neil will walk away. 

“You’re still lying to yourself if you think either of us is walking away from this after tonight,” Andrew says, voice almost hoarse, his face just inches away as he glances at Neil’s lips. Andrew takes a quick step back and clears his throat. “You’re in sub drop. Whatever you’re feeling now won’t last. Go home, tell Kevin you’re dropping after your scene last night. He’ll know what to do for you. Delete my number, don’t delete it, I don't fucking care.”

Neil is almost shaking with anticipation, so unsure of what Andrew is offering right now. He’s terrified to hope, but too desperate not to. Andrew takes a few more steps backwards, putting enough space between them so that Neil can breathe freely. 

“Oh, and Neil?” Andrew adds. “Next time you scene with a Dom, tell them you drop _hard_.” 

Neil’s voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I don’t -”

“You do,” Andrew insists, despite the fact that he’s never scened with Neil. “Roland said you were so twitchy and nervous after you scened with him that you couldn’t lift your cup without shaking and you tried to refuse aftercare. _Several times._ And with Jean…” Andrew motions towards Neil vaguely, as thought that’s an adequate explanation.

Fair enough - it is. Neil glances down at his bruised thighs and remembers the swell of regret, the pain in his chest, the confused, dark mood that came out of nowhere. It explains a lot, especially because now that Andrew has brought it up, Neil really does think he's in sub drop. He'd assumed the day he spent after his scene with Roland regretting all of his life choices had just been because of his snafu. Sub drop had honestly never crossed his mind. And after his scene with Jean, he felt _great._ Not that he's ever going to soliloquize about that in front of Andrew. 

"But I was fine after my scene yesterday." 

Andrew looks unimpressed to have to explain this. "It doesn't always happen right away. I'm not google. You can look this shit up on your own."

"...Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Go home," Andrew repeats. Something like concern crosses Andrew glances darkly at the bruises on Neil’s exposed skin and he stops again. "Ice helps for the first couple of days. And if you want those to fade, avoid ibuprofen. And aspirin. You’ll feel better but those’ll only make it worse. Kevin probably already has his own acetaminophen that you can borrow.” 

Before Neil can ask what that's supposed to mean - even though he’s pretty sure Andrew will insist it doesn't mean anything - his phone starts ringing. 

"Wait -" Neil says to Andrew while accepting the call. 

“You coming?” Kevin barks into the phone. “We wasted half a tank of gas already.”

By the time Neil looks up again, Andrew is already gone. 

He stares at the screen for a moment in disbelief. He doesn’t want to know how Kevin knew to call exactly now, and decides not to question it. Instead, he does exactly what Andrew told him to do.

“I think I’m in sub drop,” Neil says, staring at the blank brick wall. 

“Yeah, we got that much from Andrew. Just get your ass out front so we can go home,” Kevin says. “Thea already ordered a pizza to the apartment and it’ll be there before us at this rate. If you’re not here like, five seconds ago, I’m coming to get you.” 

When Neil hangs up, he shudders before walking out front to find Kevin and Thea. 

Andrew was right. Neil _is_ lying to himself, because nothing about what just happened feels like a goodbye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this installment! Next chapter will be up sometime during the first week of September :)
> 
> Taking bets now as to how Andrew is going to handle the aftermath Neil's sub drop. 
> 
> (hint: it's probably exactly as badly as you'd expect)


	10. The New Bakersfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by BTS since I have been listening to them nonstop this week. Apparently I just want to cry over their music while writing and that's fine.
> 
> tags/warnings: angst, Neil still has bruises from Jean, brief+nondescript mentions of past trauma (not specific at all), mention of nightmares/dreams, mentions of depression+ the meaning of happiness.

_In the Bakersfield nightmare, it’s always a thousand fucking degrees out._

Andrew wakes up with his shirt plastered to his skin, his heart barely contained in his chest as the radiator next to his bed clicks a familiar rhythm. He blinks, not quite convinced that he's alone until he clumsily gropes the empty space next to him. It takes a few moments before he remembers why he’s having this particular nightmare on repeat, and then it all comes back to him in a rush of adrenaline that does more for him than coffee ever could. 

This is all Neil’s fault. 

Or - 

That’s not entirely true. But it's 6-fucking-AM on a Thursday morning. He’s supposed to be at work in an hour, his hair is sweat-matted to his forehead, his phone is buzzing somewhere in his apartment, and he’s having nightmares again ( _still,_ the voice in his head corrects, because they’ve never really stopped since Neil came into the picture). By those measures, his life is a fucking mess, and he needs to blame someone else for the train-wreck of his life right now. 

Logically, he knows it’s his own damn fault for lying to Neil in the first place. He was the one to tell everyone - himself included - that it was fine for Neil to scene with Jean. But it's far from fine. Ever since he watched Neil come apart like a sunset in Eden’s back alley (a brilliant, slow unraveling), Andrew has been falling apart. 

He sees the signs, looking back. The way his stomach dropped when he saw the bruises across Neil's ass. The way his throat tightened like a vice when Kevin waited for Neil to leave before saying _he's been like this all day._ The way his heart beat faster when he saw the unlit cigarette shaking between Neil’s fingers. The way his head pounded when he asked Neil _what do you want?_ The way his world stopped spinning when Neil said _you._

If he hadn’t been so caught up with Neil’s issues, he might have noticed his own composure slipping sooner.

But it’s too late for that now.

The knuckles on his right hand are still split from when he punched the wall at Eden's after leaving Neil in the alley, which was only the first of many stupid decisions he's made in the past few days. He blocked Neil's number, and then called off sick from work for three days straight, during which he stopped answering Jean’s calls and Jeremy’s texts. And even though he's been too disgusted with himself to look in a mirror since then, he knows that the bags under his eyes have to be at least five days deep by now. His seams are ripping and nothing he does can make it better. Nothing feels real except for the nightmares that won't stop.

Neil wasn’t supposed to say that he wanted Andrew that night. He was supposed to want something tangible, something Andrew could easily give him. A quick, hard fuck. A hand wrapped around his cock, his back pressed against a wall. A tongue down his throat. Andrew could've easily supplied any of that, but Neil had said _you_ like a prayer, unwavering in his confidence. 

Not that Neil actually wants Andrew. Sub drop is a bitch; he probably would've said that to any Dom that had showed him an ounce of attention. And Neil has a habit of running his mouth before he thinks about the consequences, so Andrew is preparing to become that consequence. He knows it's just a matter of time before he gets hit with _I didn’t really mean it,_ or _let’s just be friends._

Denial, however, is an art Andrew has perfected. Neil can't possible tell him to fuck off if Andrew is wholly unavailable, and a part of him really believes that he can avoid the inevitable disappointment by sleeping an ungodly amount and setting his phone on do not disturb. In the past day alone, he’s received (and ignored) eight new voicemails and a dozen unread texts. Not that he's checking.

He keeps telling himself that this entire experience with Neil is a glitch. No, an exception - it _has_ to be an exception, because the alternative is that this is his new normal. And Neil isn't worth losing all of his progress from years of therapy and learning to set boundaries and finding a health outlet for his emotions. He’s never felt himself slipping like this, not in a way that seemed genuinely destructive. 

Really, he should’ve walked away from Neil a long time ago. He isn’t the kind of Dom that cares about his subs, not in the way that Neil so clearly needs caring for. Despite the scars and attitude and everything surface-deep about Neil that says _I can take whatever you can give,_ there's a brutal honesty about him that sets Andrew on edge. He sees it in the way Neil can't quite control himself when they're together. He saw it last weekend in the alley behind Eden's, when Neil stared into the darkness and said _this means we’re done, right?_

It killed Andrew to do nothing in that moment. It hadn’t been his place to reach out and wrap Neil’s shaking hands in his own. He’s never felt so shattered by a sub before, and it physically pained him when he couldn't pull Neil against his chest to whisper in his ear how perfect he was. That, in itself, had been a foreign feeling. Aftercare has always been perfunctory for him as a Dom. It's always been something he did because he had to, not because he wanted to. He used to think that Jean was bullshitting him when he said aftercare was sometimes better than the actual scene, but now, he isn’t so sure.

He can’t shake the image of Neil frozen in place, his stare glassy-eyed and vacant. It had been the click of Andrew’s lighter that brought Neil back to himself, but a sadistic part of Andrew wants to believe it was his presence that grounded Neil. The flush on Neil’s face had been intoxicating, the panic in his voice a cure for Andrew’s selfish desire to be Neil’s Dom. For those few minutes, Neil had been his to protect. Not Jean’s, not Roland’s. _His._

And now, days later, it’s a feeling he’s desperate to experience again. He wants to be the one to push Neil to the edge, the one to bring him safely back.

As he said: intoxicating. 

His phone begins to ring in the other room again, and the only reason he stumbles to find it is because the noise makes him want to hit something and there's a slight possibility it's his work checking in on him.

It’s not his work. It's Jean, and he has every intention of letting it go to voicemail until he sees the string of missed texts beneath it. 

“What?” Andrew answers, unable to find the energy to deal with pleasantries at the moment. 

“Nice to hear from you, too,” Jean says. Andrew doesn’t bother replying, and puts Jean on speaker while he taps through the missed texts, all sent in the middle of last night.

 ** _Jeremy:_** _Neil wants to talk to you._

 **_Jeremy:_ ** _He says he tried to call you a bunch of times but it goes straight to voicemail._

 **_Jeremy:_ ** _Don’t tell me you blocked him._

There’s an hour gap, and finally one last message at 2AM:

 **_Jeremy:_ ** _No one’s heard from you since last weekend. Just text me to let me know you’re okay._

“You’re not answering your phone,” Jean says.

“Then what exactly am I doing right now?” Andrew snaps. He's being obstinate, but he can’t help it. 

“Jeremy’s worried.”

“Good for him."

Andrew's head spins, and it’s not just from the lack of sleep. All he wants is some goddamned peace and quiet. He attempts to press his palms against his eyes to stop the pounding in his head, but it doesn’t work. He already knows exactly what Jean’s next question will be, based on Jeremy's texts.

“He said you blocked Neil." 

He wants to say _yeah, because I like to think about what I'm doing before I make a critical mistake,_ but he ends up staying dead silent. He needs time to separate how he feels about Neil from the reality in front of him: a sink full of dirty dishes, a pile of laundry, an empty fridge, an overflowing trash can. None of that is Neil's fault, but all Andrew can think about is whether it's better to hold on or let go. He can only handle one crisis at a time, and right now, that crisis is the abysmal state of his apartment.

He shrugs, even though Jean can’t see him. Words feel too heavy right now, and after another beat of silence, Jean seems to pick up on that. 

“You’re not going to be able to avoid him forever,” Jean points out. 

Andrew grunts noncommittally. He has every intention of avoiding Neil for as long as possible, until he’s back in control of himself. The tension already building in his jaw from this conversation isn’t a promising sign that it'll be anytime soon. 

Jean sighs heavily into the phone. “You both want the same thing. Why not just tell him?” 

“We _don't,_ " Andrew mutters as he digs something semi-presentable out of his laundry. "And anyway, there's nothing to tell."

“Really,” Jean says flatly. “Nothing to tell.”

“Nothing,” Andrew repeats, because it’s true enough. Even if hearing that Neil tried to call him makes Andrew’s chest lighter, it does nothing for the pit in his stomach. Once he figures out how to stop the urge to simultaneously protect and destroy Neil, then they can talk. Until then, he's going to work on remembering how to put one foot in front of the other and go to work before they decide to fire him.

“Fine,” Jean says after a pause. “So … I guess we won’t see you tomorrow night then.”

Andrew fishes a sock out of his drawer, his shirt half-buttoned and pants still unzipped. When he reaches into the drawer to grab its pair, he touches something buried at the bottom. He’s only half-listening as he pulls out the offending item.

“Last bonfire of the season,” Jean continues brightly. “Everyone’s coming. Neil included, of course. But if you don’t want to talk to him, I guess you won’t be there. Not that you aren’t invited, because you're always welcome.” 

It's his first collar, one that he bought himself when he was sixteen. It’s buttery-soft against his fingertips, lined with lambskin for extra comfort. Nothing about this collar reflects who he is now, but a memory of the person he used to be sparks across his skin when he touches it. Not someone soft or gentle, just someone with fewer sharp edges. He wonders if the person he used to be would be proud of the Dom he's become. Probably not.

Karma must be a bitch, though, because he'd forgotten that he chose an icy blue color for his first collar, and looking at it now, he realizes that it’s almost the exact shade of Neil’s eyes. 

“... and he's had a hard week, so even if you’re not there, you don't need to worry about Neil being alone. Roland and I will be there. And anyway, I know that you’re probably -”

“I’ll come,” Andrew says, tightening his fist around the collar.

Fuck his protective streak. Fuck the way his entire body tenses when he thinks of Neil alone with another Dom, even one as gentle as Jean. All he can think right not is how soft the skin around Neil's neck would be under his fingers, how perfectly the collar in his hand would fit him, as if it were made with Neil in mind. 

For the first time in a long time, Andrew's past isn't coming back to bite him in the ass. For once, it feels like it was meant to be. 

It's probably overly dramatic to think he and Neil were fated to be together because young-Andrew's favorite color happens to be the exact shade of Neil's eyes. But Andrew can't help think it.

“I'll be there,” Andrew repeats.

“Sure,” Jean says off-handedly, a teasing edge to his voice. “That’s fine. Just put a leash on your brat before you come.” 

Andrew growls something vaguely like _fuck off,_ and Jean laughs as he hangs up.

Before Andrew does something stupid, he slips the collar back into the drawer and slams it shut so he can get to work.

\---

_He can feel the California sun on his skin at first, burning his cheeks as he stares up at the house. There are cacti in the front garden: honest-to-God cacti with needles and weird-shaped flowers that smell like rotting fruit. But behind the house is an acre of real grass. Not the plastic turf that SoCal high schools plaster across patches of desert to make football fields that look like they belong in the midwest. This is real grass, the kind that tickles his feet when he stands on it. This part doesn’t feel like a nightmare, when he breathes in the dry summer air and he thinks that this is what peace would smell like._

_It feels like a dream should feel._ _There’s a suitcase on the front porch, right next to a ceramic goose. A pair of sandals abandoned just inside the front door. A beach towel on the floor. A trail of wet footprints leading towards the interior of the house. An oldies station plays on the kitchen radio, the kind of music that Andrew can’t help but hum along to when he hears it. Even if he pretends not to know the words when anyone else is around._

_He walks inside, and the world is frozen around him. Sometimes, he takes the picture frames off the wall and lets go of them, one by one lifting them into the air. Each one remains suspended, spinning slightly whenever he takes a breath._

_Every time, he follows the set of footprints to the stairs. And when he gets to the top, every time, he stops when he sees the open bedroom door._

He opens his eyes, frantic to block out the ghost of Bakersfield in his brain. His bedside clock flashes 5:45PM. He’s had more than an entire day since Jean called to tell him about the bonfire and Neil knowing about the blocked calls to change his mind, but he hasn't really put his heart into thinking of an excuse to get out of it. The selfish part of himself hopes that seeing Neil will pull him back from the edge, but he pushes that thought aside because the implication is dangerous. There has to be another way for him to deal with his issues that doesn’t involve seeing Neil or punching walls. He shouldn't need to rely on someone so heavily. 

This really should be something he calls Bee about. He can already hear her admonishing him: _tell me how placing responsibility for your recovery on a boy you just met a couple of months ago is going to help your healing._

Well - Bee would never say it like that. Andrew’s projecting a bit (just a bit), but at least he’s self-aware enough to realize he’s doing it. In reality, she’d probably just tell him to be honest with Neil about his feelings. Then she’d probably tell him to stop catastrophizing and give himself a chance to be vulnerable. That letting Neil support him isn't weakness, not unless it's bordering on codependency or obsession or any other of a hundred terrible ways a person can possibly get tangled up with someone as addictive as Neil. 

_Take him out to coffee,_ Bee said last time - as if Neil’s the type of boy Andrew could take out for coffee. As if Andrew’s the type to take anyone out for coffee in the first place. Neil would probably show up with miles of skin on display, and Andrew would end up fucking him over the bathroom sink before their drinks were ready.

See? Not healthy. Bee should really think more before she suggests these things. 

Andrew could hypothetically leave for Jean’s, since he’s already dressed. A reckless part of his brain won’t let him go yet. He pushes all thoughts of Bee out of his mind and realizes he's staring into his dresser drawer, the old collar peeking up at him from where it's half-buried by socks. 

He can’t bring it with tonight. For all he knows, Neil only tried to call him to let him down easy. Hell, even if Neil wants Andrew to be his Dom after Andrew fucking _blocked him_ _,_ that doesn’t mean that Neil is ready to wear Andrew’s collar yet. Or that Andrew's ready to give it to him. 

Not that Neil wouldn’t wear it in a heartbeat; he isn't exactly subtle about his jealous desire: a hand against his throat, fingers trailing along the side of his neck while he talks, rubbing the spot a collar would cover. Neil wears his longing openly, and Andrew suspects it's just as crushing for Neil to be around owned subs as it is for Andrew to be around Neil right now. 

That says nothing about the fact that Neil's jealousy is completely necessary. If the other Doms at Eden's knew he was on the market, he could be collared in an hour. Sure, Jeremy is great in small doses, and Kevin has his moments, but Neil ... Andrew suspects Neil would put them both to shame. It's why every Dom there seems to notice when Neil walks in, the way he draws attention almost instinctively. Memories of his mouth alone have been enough to send Andrew over the edge several times this week. Neil chewing on straws, Neil licking condensation from the side of a glass, Neil biting his lip and laughing at Jeremy's bad puns. Andrew doesn't bother trying to stop his imagination from running wild in the privacy of his own apartment; what he wouldn't give to see Neil's chin spit-slicked, his mouth relaxed around Andrew's half-hard cock, eyes glazed and sleepy as he sits between Andrew's knees. His own personal cock warmer. 

Andrew resists the urge to pull out his dick, which will only end with him imagining that he's coming down Neil's throat instead of his own sad hand. It's not a disappointment he wants to experience right before seeing Neil in person. That would be a new low, even for himself. He should be able to handle a few hours together with Neil without needing to get off first, and it's a small test he gives himself - to prove that Neil doesn't own him. He takes a deep breath to take some of the edge off. It does nothing for how hard his cock is, but it makes him feel infinitesimally more in control. 

If he can just get through tonight with minimal damage, maybe he can explain to Neil why he's had so much trouble opening up lately. Maybe he can ask Neil to wait for him, to be patient while Andrew finds the right way to let Neil into his life. But that requires him to put all thoughts of Neil in various states of undress on hold. 

Even if Neil doesn't want to wait for him, even if Neil doesn't want him at all anymore, Andrew selfishly wants to hear Neil say it in person. He knows he forfeited that right the minute he blocked Neil's number and avoided everyone else like the plague. But he needs to know if Neil is done with him or not. It's eaten him up inside, and he'd like to free up some of his mental real estate if Neil has already moved on to his next Dom. 

That doesn't stop him from staring at the collar in his sock drawer and wondering what Neil would look like with it on. If he brought it with ... if he gave it to Neil, assuming he and Neil are still on speaking terms, still not broken beyond repair, he'd probably accept it. Neil's flavor of desperation would probably compel him to wear the first collar he’s offered. Which means it's up to Andrew to stop the both of them from doing something completely idiotic.

Starting with leaving his old collar at home tonight, because bringing it with would be the exact kind of mistake he's trying to avoid. 

But _God_ , does Andrew want to see what Neil would look like with it on. And he's already worn thin from arguing with himself about whether it would just be easier to text Neil his address along with _I'd love to fuck you_ and let the chips fall where they may. (Who says romance is dead?)

Against his better judgement, he slips the collar into his pocket before heading out to the Maserati. It’s only a familiar comfort, he tells himself, like a security blanket. He’s not actually going to give it to Neil. 

By the time he pulls up in front of Jean’s house, it takes him all of two seconds to realize how fucking _stupid_ he is. 

Neil is sitting on the curb, and in Andrew's opinion, he’s never looked more fuckable. He immediately regrets not taking care of his earlier hard-on, because it's back with a vengeance. He's fully prepared to stay in his car until he isn't rock-hard anymore, but Neil has other plans. As soon as Andrew cuts the engine, Neil gets up and stretches, revealing a stretch of skin along his hips that disappears back underneath his oversized NASA sweatshirt by the time Andrew remembers how to breathe. It doesn't help clear his head, and he startles when Neil suddenly appears next to the drivers' side window, tapping incessantly on the glass.

Andrew stalls, pretending to look for cigarettes in his center console while he frantically regrets his wardrobe decisions. Skinny jeans and Josten clearly do not mix, unless Andrew is interested in publicly advertising how fast his dick can go from zero to sixty when Neil is around. Thankfully, Neil doesn't seem to notice, as he's too focused on getting fingerprints on the glass ( _freshly washed,_ Andrew laments).

“ _Asshole_ ,” Neil mouths through the closed window, each word punctuated by his tapping, completely unaware of how affected Andrew is by his very presence. It pisses Andrew off, which - God knows why, this has to be the cruelest twist of fate - only turns him on more. Neil doesn’t seem to notice Andrew's arousal as he very clearly states, “ _Get. Out.”_

For someone in sunglasses and acid washed jeans, Neil has got no right to be asking Andrew to do anything. But as the Dom that ghosted him, Andrew has no choice but to do as he's told.

If he didn’t know better, he would think Neil looks threatening. The intensity in his stare is unexpected, but the moment passes in the blink of an eye. Neil pushes his sunglasses up his forehead, his hair flattened back, and his pout softens whatever anger is left in his expression. He's still serious, but Andrew swears that behind Neil's eyes, there's more emphasis on the _we-could-hate-fuck-in-your-backseat_ kind of anger instead of the _I'm-going-to-straight-up-murder-you_ kind. 

Andrew doesn’t rush getting out of the car. He tucks his cigarettes into his jacket, fishes under the seat for a spare lighter, clicks it a few times to make sure it works, and shoves his wallet in his jeans pocket. He checks his phone for the time and pretends to turn the radio off before finally fiddling unnecessarily with the button to unlock the doors. 

“You think this is a game?” Neil asks, not bothering to step back when Andrew almost shoves the door open into him.

“Didn’t see you there,” Andrew says as he balances a cigarette between his lips. 

Neil doesn’t smile. “Cut the bullshit. Why’d you block my number?” 

Andrew shrugs and lights his cigarette. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“This,” Neil says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He hits the call button and turns up the volume so Andrew can hear it go straight to voicemail. Neil hangs up before it starts to leave an actual message. “You’re a real asshole sometimes.” 

Andrew raises a single eyebrow as he takes a long drag from his cigarette, not bothering to dispute such a well-established fact. He has never tried to be anything but an asshole; Neil’s accusation is redundant and unnecessary. He tries his best to appear unaffected, and it isn’t difficult. Years of practice make it easy for him to paint disinterest across his face before Neil notices the way Andrew's gaze lingers on the curve of his jaw, the place where his neck meets his shoulder. 

That’s not to say he's unaffected by Neil. The opposite, in fact. His hands itch to reach out and touch Neil, and he fights the urge to spin Neil around and press him against the side of the Mas. If he could, he’d pin Neil in place with a single hand against his jaw, until Neil's cheek is pressed against the cool metal of the car. He'd growl at him to shut up and drag his teeth along the column of Neil's throat and purr _who’s an asshole now?_ He'd make Neil beg for more, digging bruises into whatever unblemished skin he could find on his body beneath that damn sweatshirt. He'd pull the collar out of his pocket and show the brat what he's missing out on. He'd do everything he should've done on Halloween.

He'd make it worth their while.

That isn’t a particularly helpful thought. Actually, it’s the exact kind of thing Andrew is trying to avoid right now, so he shoves past Neil before one or both of them start crossing lines that can't be un-crossed. He came here to have a conversation, but he needs to be able to think with his head instead of his dick for this one.

Neil doesn’t take the hint, as usual. His sneakers squeak against the grass as he follows Andrew around the back of the house. It's a familiar enough place that some of Andrew's tension releases when he spots the old oak tree, the fire pit, the back porch. Kevin and Thea have already taken over the porch swing, and Jean is throwing wood into the fire pit. Jeremy’s missing, but Roland is balanced on the porch railing while he talks with Thea. 

But something feels off. It’s too quiet, Andrew realizes. He remembers what these parties were like before everyone graduated - what it was like to have Nicky and Aaron and Katelyn and Renee and Allison around, too - back before Jean owned this place. Before Kevin or Thea or Neil were around. Back when they’d drive several hours to the coast, just to make the biggest possible fire on the beach. Not that he’s about to invite any of them back to this godforsaken town; they’re all better off staying whatever it is they’ve settled, far from South Carolina and far from Andrew’s personal business. 

He just misses the chaos a little bit, which he regrets thinking almost immediately, because Kevin more than makes up for it as soon as he spots them.

“You’re not allowed back here,” Kevin shouts, gripping a plastic cup that is dangerously full in one hand. Thea tries to steady him from falling off of the swing next to her. "Neil. No - wait, both of you. _Out_.” 

“But -”

“Stop whining, Neil,” Kevin says. “Once you drop the attitude, you’re welcome to join us. And you -" 

Andrew cuts Kevin a glare that immediately stops him from finishing that sentence. He taps ash from his cigarette and looks towards Jean, since he doesn’t take orders from Kevin. Ever.

Unhelpful as always, Jean wipes bark and soot off on his shirt, grimacing at the mess before bothering to acknowledge Andrew. 

“Wasn't I clear the other day? He’s your problem tonight,” Jean explains, nodding towards where Neil is attempting to hop onto the porch railing. He misses, and kicks the wooden support beam in retaliation while he swears under his breath. “You put him in this mood. You get him out of it.” 

“He’s not my responsibility,” Andrew says through gritted teeth. 

"Right," Jean says with false levity. "That's why you decided to crawl out from whatever rock you died under after an entire week. Because he's not your responsibility."

"He's _not_ ," Andrew insists. 

Jean raises an inquisitive eyebrow as he balls up sheets of newspaper and stuffs them under the woodpile. “Look at him. He’s going to self-destruct if you don’t talk to him. Unless you’d rather I take care of him for you, again?” 

Andrew resents the _again_ tacked onto the end of that sentence, but it does exactly as Jean intended. 

“Neil,” Andrew barks. Neil is still trying to get onto the railing, this time half holding up his own weight and half being pulled up by Roland. Both of them immediately freeze. “Get down.” 

Neil drops Roland’s hand and lets himself fall back to the ground, steady on his feet.

“Let’s go,” Andrew says without further explanation.

He doesn’t want to have any part of this conversation within earshot of Kevin. Or Jean. Not if he's attempting to be honest with Neil. He heads back towards the driveway and is only slightly pleased when Neil follows without having to be told twice. 

Out front, Andrew leans against the trunk of the Maserati, careful not to let the rivets on his jeans scratch the paint. He can faintly hear Jean shouting something at Kevin about not spilling on the nice cushions.

It's hardly sunset, but the evening has already begun to cool down. For fall in South Carolina, it could be much colder, but Andrew doesn't miss the way Neil's hands gather the sleeves of his sweatshirt, the way he wraps his arms around himself as he rocks on his heels. 

“Talk,” Andrew growls. He's not in the most patient mood, not after Neil called him an asshole and cut right to the chase by asking _why'd you block my number?_

Neil pulls up his hood in the most nonthreatening way and chews on the strings, although by his glare, Andrew supposes Neil means to look menacing. He has to fight back the urge to thread his fingers through Neil’s hair and pull him in, until they're pressed close enough to breath in nothing but each other. Neil, unfortunately, has taken the command quite literally, and Andrew misses most of what he starts off with before he realizes he should be listening instead of eye-fucking Neil.

"-and you didn't seem to want to talk five minutes ago. So I don't see what good this does unless you have something a little less monosyllabic to say than _talk_. Which is _rude,_ by the way."

God, Andrew needs to focus. He's supposed to be fixing things right now, but this feels like the first time he popped the hood on the Mas and stared down at the smoking engine, trying to figure out how the fuck he screwed up and what he could do to fix it. 

He's just as lost now as he was then. 

"Nothing?" Neil asks impatiently. "You really have nothing to say. After an entire week." 

Andrew shrugs, the movement jerky. Judging by the amount of skin Neil has covered tonight, he’s not quite back to his usual self, and it's unnerving to see that kind of insecurity splashed across Neil's skin. Maybe unnerving isn't the right word. It's foreboding, but even Andrew can't predict what comes out of Neil's mouth next.

"I was only trying to call you to tell you that you were right."

"I'm always right," Andrew says, trying to pretend that he isn't a part of this train wreck. 

Neil snorts. "Yeah? Well, then you probably already knew that I decided to take a break. From everything." 

Andrew’s blood runs cold. He knows better that this. He _knew_ better, back when he first saw Neil sitting at Eden's bar with a coke on the rocks, and thought _that's my sub_. There was a reason that he never got involved with inexperienced subs in the past, and there was a very real reason that he told Neil to fuck off on Halloween, and that reason is coming back to haunt him now. 

His hand instinctively tightens around the collar in his pocket. _Look,_ it mocks him. _You managed to fuck this up before he even gave you a real chance._

"A break," Andrew repeats numbly. There's a sick kind of irony in the fact that Andrew had thought he would end tonight by asking Neil to wait for him. To let _him_ take a break. 

"A break," Neil says, and this has got to top Andrew's list of worst conversations ever. Even Nicky is better at stringing coherent sentences together, which is really saying something. 

Andrew swallows, waiting for a punchline that isn't coming. Eventually, he says, "Good to know," even though it's not.

He tosses the rest of his cigarette into the street. He's suddenly lost interest in it, and they both watch as it rolls across the asphalt, waiting for the trail of smoke to thin into nothingness. Neither of them say anything for a while, and the longer their silence stretches out, the deeper Neil's scowl gets. Jeremy’s voice filters out from behind the house, shouting for Jean to grab more beers from inside. 

It takes a while for either of them to move, but Neil is the first to sit on the curb. In spite of himself, Andrew almost immediately sits right next to him. Close enough that he can smell Neil's shower gel or hairspray or whatever it is that he uses to make himself smell like peppermint and springtime. Given the chance, Andrew would gladly explore Neil’s body until he finds the source, but that isn't on the table any more. Because Neil's taking a break _from everything_ , whatever the fuck that means, and frankly, Andrew should be doing the same.

“I thought I'd like it,” Neil says cryptically. "But I don't." 

His mind immediately goes to dark places, wondering if Neil pushed himself too hard during his scene with Jeremy and Jean, if he felt pressured to consent to things he didn't want to do. His own memories push towards the surface, and he tries to mask the cold anger in his voice as he asks very carefully, “You don’t like what?” 

Neil shrugs and pulls up his sweatshirt just enough for Andrew to see the bruise along his hip. It's the same bruise he saw earlier in the week when Neil had his ass practically on display at Eden's during his breakdown, but it's darker now. Andrew lifts a hand to touch the spot, but stops just short of grazing his fingers against Neil’s skin. He won’t complicate this any more than it already is, and he can’t touch Neil right now. Those bruises are a mocking reminder of another Dom’s touch, and Andrew rests his hand back on the curb between them. 

“They're too familiar,” Neil mumbles, nestling his chin against his knees. “Brings up bad memories.”

Andrew doesn’t have anything to say to that. He knows what that's like, but Neil saves him from having to agree by butting in, "You got a cigarette?”

Neil has to know full well the answer is yes, and Andrew hands him one. Lights it. Again, Neil mostly lets it burn. Andrew means to ask him why he doesn’t actually smoke them, but Neil doesn’t keep his mouth shut long to give him the chance.

“I didn’t realize how long bruises last,” he says, scratching absently at the long-healed burn mark on his cheek. “You think I’d know better by now, y'know?” 

“Four weeks,” Andrew says. Neil only frowns, so Andrew clears his throat and tries again. “The longest time it took my bruises to fade. Four weeks.” 

Neil whistles. “That must’ve been nice.”

“Foster care," Andrew says without inflection, as though it costs him nothing to talk about this part of his past; another lie, easily detected if Neil bothers to see past the mask of indifference on his face. But his words are true. "I had to cover them so my teachers wouldn’t notice, or else I'd get hit worse.” 

“Oh -” Neil starts to say, but Andrew doesn’t wait for his reaction.

“Don't. It was a long time ago.” 

Neil stares down at the curb. This kind of quiet is mildly reminiscent of when Andrew drove Neil home. It doesn’t help that Neil is in the same stupid sweatshirt as that night; Andrew almost wishes that Neil had brought the car ears. He hooks his fingers in Neil’s sleeve and tugs until Neil looks up at him. 

"I didn't mean it like that," Neil says, which isn't as bad as an apology. 

Andrew stares at him for a long moment. "I know."

Neil nods slowly, his gaze falling to the place where Andrew’s fingers connect with his sleeve. Slowly, he worms his own hand out from inside, laying it palm-up on the grass between them. The fact that Neil doesn’t just take Andrew’s hand without asking is at once both infuriating and far too pleasing for Andrew's own good. Neil swallows, glancing up at Andrew. 

"That doesn't make you any less of an asshole," he says. "For blocking me. If you didn't want me to call, you should've just said so. I wouldn't have bothered you." 

_You always bother me,_ Andrew thinks. Before he can think of something less pathetic to say, someone shoves the front door open behind them. It bangs against the side of the house and Andrew doesn't miss the way that Neil startles slightly at the noise. 

"Jean says your time-out is over," Jeremy calls across the yard. "You've had enough time to sort your shit out. Unless you're about to start fucking in the backseat of the Mas like rabbits, get your asses to the backyard." 

\---

 _The Bakersfield dream_ _always ends the same way. He opens the bedroom door, and there's nothing inside. Just a bed, a lamp, a bookshelf, a desk. It's such a normal fucking room._

 _Every time, Andrew sits on the bed and waits. Sometimes it seems to last for hours. Sometimes minutes. Eventually, the sun starts to go down and the room is painted in shades of yellow, then orange and grey. A_ _subtle kind of darkness envelops him that feels soft, unhurried. The kind of darkness that seeps into his skin until he's no more substantial than the shadows on the walls. It isn't a nightmare yet, not while the feeling of nothingness spread through his veins, because it means that he's safe._

 _He waits in that dark room, because that's what he's done all his life. And for once, he gets what he always wanted: n_ _o one comes to find him._

_Every time that he falls asleep in the dream, he falls asleep with the reassurance that when he wakes up, he'll wake up alone._

The bonfire only lasts a few hours. Someone (probably Jeremy) has thrown a couple of blankets on the grass, and someone (probably Jean) has dragged a log from the woodpile in the corner of the yard for them to sit on, along with a couple of camping chairs. Neil sits on the log, and Andrew settles on the blanket on the other side of the fire to put as much space as possible between them while everyone else throws sticks into the flames and chats shit about nothing in particular. 

Andrew doesn't even notice Neil moving closer, and by the time the stars are fully out, Neil has somehow made his way to Andrew's blanket. He's laying on his back, staring up at the sky. Jean's radio is playing from the house, even though he and Jeremy disappeared inside a short while ago. Roland left for his shift at Eden's, and Kevin and Thea are still on the porch swing by the back door, half-asleep on each other's shoulders. 

There's a question on Andrew's tongue that he can't bring himself to ask. Partly because he wants to respect Neil's decision to take a break, and partly because he doesn't want to sound like an idiot who doesn't understand what a break is. Because he knows what it means. 

At the same time, he doesn't have a fucking clue what it means. The specifics are lost on him - maybe Neil will still come to Eden's, and he'll just choose an observer wristband. Or maybe he won't come to Eden's at all. Maybe it means he wants space, that he doesn't want to see Andrew anymore. Maybe Andrew reminds Neil too much of whatever he's trying to avoid. Maybe _break_ is code for _I don't even **want** a Dom anymore, _but what if Neil still wants Andrew - just not as a Dom? That's the most frightening thought.

What if that's why Neil has been moving (not so subtly) closer to Andrew all night? What if that's the reason that he's staring at Andrew now, not even bothering to hide the look of wonder on his face? Because Andrew knows having Neil as anything other than his owned, collared, and exclusive sub won't be enough. Whatever they have will fall apart if Neil is backing out of BDSM entirely. Andrew needs rules and structures and limits and boundaries to navigate the precarious terrain of emotional intimacy. He needs that reassurance of familiar territory, and permission to let go. Beneath it all, Andrew knows he's a monster, and being a Dom is the only one way he know how to his self-destructive fantasies at bay. 

Because Neil isn't some kind of magical fix for Andrew's problems. With or without Neil, Andrew is a Dom. The feeling of relief he gets when he sees any sub sobbing on their knees, begging for release, is unlike any other high he's felt. The feeling of satisfaction he gets from owning a sub inside and out is dizzying. The feeling of his hand around a sub's throat, the control implicit in such a violent and violating gesture, is a beautiful exchange of trust. Knowing his sub wants it, _asks_ for it, makes Andrew shiver, and that kind of aphrodisiac can't be forgotten easily. 

If he can't own Neil completely, he won't have him at all. It would be too dangerous to test his self control with someone so breakable. In no way can he imagine sex with Neil unless it ends with tears on the pillowcase, bruises on Neil's skin, whimpers from his lips. But unlike earlier, Andrew isn't turned on by this version of his fantasy. He's disgusted with himself for wanting Neil so resolutely, despite Neil saying he's on a fucking _break._

Neil taps Andrew's hand, and it pulls Andrew out of his thoughts. Clouds have rolled in above them, heavy with the promise of rain.

As it starts to fall, Neil says, "You're getting wet." 

Andrew glances at the spot where Neil's hand touches his own, and watches the rain start to gather on his skin. "So are you." 

"I don't mind it much." 

"Me neither," Andrew says, even though that's a lie. Rain and leather don't mix. 

Neil's curls are starting to stick to his forehead beneath his hood, and Andrew's instinct is to shrug off his jacket and wrap Neil up until he's safe and dry. (Fucking _rain_ ). He manages to keep his jacket on, because he's supposed to be an asshole and Neil's supposed to be on a break from everything - Andrew included, he assumes.

"Is this okay?" Neil asks as he stares at their hands, his finger tracing a small circle over and over again in the space between Andrew's knuckles. 

Andrew nods, not trusting himself with words right now. He feels jilted by how small this moment feels, even thought he knows Neil doesn't owe him a goddamn thing. They could've had so much more than this by now if Andrew hadn't fucked things up back on Halloween when he said he wasn't interested. If he hadn't fucked things up by blocking Neil this past week. 

Of course he's always been fucking _interested._ But Andrew just keeps lying to himself and Neil and everyone else about what he wants - what he _really_ wants. There's a part of him that's just egocentric enough to believe that if he'd been Neil's first Dom, things wouldn't have ended this way. But there's no changing the past, and right now, he thinks there's nothing left. 

"Would you tell me if it wasn't?" Neil asks.

 _Nothing shouldn't ask permission,_ Andrew thinks. This time, he doesn't nod. His gaze sharpens as he searches Neil's face for any sign of insincerity, but there's nothing but genuine curiosity there. 

"Why?" Andrew asks. The question is too open for Neil to possibly know what Andrew means, but then again, Andrew doesn't even know what he means right now. He's asking Neil, himself, the universe, whoever will answer. _Why do you care? Why are you still here? Why me? Why us? Why **now**? _

"Because," Neil sighs. It's a non-answer, as expected. His fingers stop tracing shapes into Andrew's skin, his hand coming to rest on top of Andrew's. Andrew takes the opportunity to turn his own hand palm-up, but they're definitely not holding hands, because that's not something Andrew _does._ Neil's mouth quirks into a sad imitation of a smirk as he starts again, a bitter shadow to his tone. "Because sometimes it's hard to say no when you think you really want something." 

Andrew has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he speaks. He's absolutely wrecked by this boy who sees straight through him, so much that it's killing him not to ruck up Neil's sweatshirt and trace each bruise and mark with his mouth, promising that he'll do better. He'll be better.

Instead, Andrew lets his fingers envelop Neil's as he asks, "You think I want this?" 

"Sometimes. Yeah. Other times..." Neil pauses, a dark look on his face. "Other times, you block my number." 

The drizzle starts to come down harder, and the fire quickly dies out in front of them, until the sound of the rain is accompanied only by Neil's steady breathing. When Neil wipes at his face, Andrew wants to see tears instead of raindrops because he's a sadist to his core. He wants this to hurt Neil as much as it's hurting himself. And even though Neil isn't crying, Andrew can't help the way his body reacts to the mere idea. He leans over to where Neil is still laying on the blanket, staring up at the sky, and raises his hand to Neil's cheek.

"Is this okay?" Andrew asks quietly, once again stealing Neil's words. It doesn't matter that Neil might not have anything to offer him right now beyond this; there isn't a cell in his body that wants to say no to him. He's too hypnotized by Neil to care about anything else, and for a few seconds, he's willing to take whatever Neil is willing to give. Even if he's limited to one touch, one hand against Neil's scarred cheek, he swears to himself that he'll stop. 

Neil breathes out shakily and nods, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Andrew swipes his thumb across Neil's cheek, gathering the raindrops and pretending that Neil isn't staring up at him with piercing clarity right now. He lets his fantasy drip into reality, pretending that Neil is falling apart beneath him as he leans closer, moving his entire hand until it's pressed flush against Neil's rain-slicked cheek. Neil looks like perfection right now, and it's not just because Andrew has a thing for messy sex, for getting his subs sweaty and wet with lube and cum and drool and tears. He's impossibly close to bridging the gap between his lips and Neil's when he pauses, because he _doesn't_ want this. He's never wanted this - the gentle touches, the soft movements, the careful intention behind each and every movement - but his body seems to acknowledge something his brain hasn't caught up to yet, because he's on autopilot when he finally presses his lips to Neil's forehead. 

He doesn't need a manual for this. He doesn't need rules right now, when they're both laid so bare that Andrew feels like Neil could wrench out his very soul if he so much as breathes the wrong way. Never has anything as innocent as a forehead kiss felt so poignantly destructive, and Andrew knows there's no coming back from this. 

Time is a bendable thing as Andrew pulls back just enough to look Neil in the eye. Slowly, he lets his forehead come to rest against Neil's own, and they simply breathe each other in. Andrew can feel Neil's pulse jackrabbiting through his skin. He can feel the flutter of Neil's eyelashes as he shuts his eyes. There aren't any words for how painfully perfect this moment is, and Andrew can already feel the dagger of time cutting into his back, carving out his heart piece by brutal piece, because this is a fantasy he's never allowed himself to have. 

Bee would tell him that fantasies are normal. But right now, Andrew feels extraordinarily close to taking something that isn't his, and he needs to stop before that happens. He can't press their lips together to find out what Neil tastes like. He can't explore Neil's mouth when he's already breaking apart from the smallest of touches.

"You're on a break," Andrew whispers, trying to remind them both why this is a terrible idea. He's still keeping as much distance between himself and Neil as possible. Minus his hand on Neil's face. Minus his arm bracketing the other side of Neil's head. Minus their foreheads pressed together, minus the fact that his mouth still just centimetres from Neil's, waiting for Neil to tell him no, close enough to almost lick the rain from Neil's lips. 

"Mnghm fiss eel," Neil says. Or at least that's what Andrew hears, because his hand is still pressed against Neil's cheek. He sits back immediately, having no clue what Neil just said, worried that it might've been some long-winded Neil-version of _stop._

"Until these heal," Neil repeats, flushed and disheveled. He ghosts his hand across his hip, where Andrew knows the bruises are. “Not _forever._ ” 

"What?" Andrew asks dumbly, his brain still fogged with desperate want. 

Neil (unhelpfully) bites his lip and says nothing at all, but Andrew isn't going to be distracted by that.

"Neil." Andrew says his name like a punishment, which is ironic because Neil isn't the one that's struggling right now. Sure, Neil's chest is heaving a little too fast after destroying all of Andrew's defenses with a single touch, but he's trailing his hand over his bruised hip in a soft, repetitive motion. He's steady, unshaken, his face beyond relaxed as he watches Andrew with plain curiosity, like he's waiting to be punished. (He's on a _break_ from that _,_ Andrew tells himself). 

It's hard for him to have this conversation with Neil still laying on his back, looking impossibly more fuckable than he did banging on the window of the Mas three hours ago. Andrew does his damnedest, though, and chokes out a semi-coherent sentence.

"You told me you were taking a break. From everything." 

"Did I?" Neil muses, not meeting Andrew's eyes. 

"You did." 

"I don't like them," Neil says with a sigh. "The bruises -" 

"You said that already," Andrew interrupts. "Cut the bullshit."

Neil flicks a glance at Andrew's mouth before he answers. "He doesn't own me, but it feels like he does."

"Jean?" Andrew asks, and Neil nods. 

"I wanted to like it. And I _did_ like it, until I realized that it wasn't enough. It should've been, but the more I thought about what I actually wanted, the more I realized I'd fucked up. Which was - I mean, God, you saw me outside of Eden's. I can't handle casual-" Neil takes a deep, shuddering breath "-casual play. I needed more than that, but it was too late, you know? I'd already done it, so all I wanted was to forget about it. But I kept looking at those bruises and thinking about how fucking pathetic I was. I'd wanted to be a sub for so long. It was supposed to make me more confident. More relaxed. And I just felt so fucking stupid for expecting so much. Then you followed me outside and I told you what I really wanted, and I thought maybe -" he pauses again, reroutes his sentence "-I kept trying with the phone. Calling you, but -" 

Neil stops. They both know what Andrew did. There has to be a cruel God out there watching Andrew struggle to keep a neutral face, because there is no punishment worse than feeling his gut twist as he realizes that Neil _needed_ him and he hadn't been there. Realizing that it's not his place to say anything to the contrary now. 

As a rule, Andrew doesn't do apologies, or regret, but he's very close to finding a way to turn back time so he can absolutely murder his former self for blocking Neil's number in an act of desperate frustration. All he can say is, "I didn't know." 

Andrew can't help the way his chest tightens at the way Neil looks disappointed but not surprised by his lack of apology.

Neil's face twists into a grim smile, one that isn't wet from just the rain anymore, as he tells Andrew, "I know."

Andrew wants to taste the salt on Neil's skin. He wants to feel the way Neil's rib cage contracts and expands with each shaking breath, the way Neil's body tenses as he holds back whatever secrets he can't trust Andrew with just yet. He wants to bury his face in the crook of Neil's neck and breathe in the smell of damp warmth that he knows from experience will now remind him of home, as if that's a word that means something to a person like Andrew. As if that's a word he ever dared dream of. 

But he has, he realizes. 

He's always known that Bakersfield has never been a nightmare. The dream itself was always exactly what he wanted; it's the place he went to when the world was too much, where he could hide from his demons, and pain didn't exist in the same dimension. It's always been the waking-up bit that kills him, and he knows now why he's been dreaming of the place non-stop since meeting Neil.

This is why Bakersfield feels so familiar: when Neil sits up, and rests his elbows on his knees, he looks up at Andrew through lashes that catch starlight between the tears and raindrops. _This_ is what Andrew can't have. What he dares to think happiness feels like, such a fragile, fleeting thing. Andrew wouldn't know how to fashion a cage to catch it, and wonders how much, exactly, he'd sacrifice to keep it for just a little bit longer. 

Happiness is a terrifying thing to want for someone who's lived their life in utter darkness. 

"It's late," Andrew says. Somewhere in his voice there's a crack, and somewhere in his heart there's one to match. He doesn't want to admit out loud that he's terrified that Neil already has this much power over him with nothing but words and a single shared touch. 

"I should probably go," Neil says, wiping at his face with his sleeves.

They're both a fucking mess from nothing at all, and it's so fucking poetic. Neil, starting at him through the rain in the dark, trying to decipher what they could've been. What they still could be, given enough time. Andrew, trying his best not to drown in his own emotions. Intimate strangers, both of them broken in different ways, both of them hurting. They're so far from okay that it doesn't seem right to think that there could be a day when their jagged edges won't be so lethal, but right now that feels impossible. Every time they get close, they only end up hurting each other. 

Andrew stands up, shaking off the rain from his hair as he realizes Kevin and Thea aren't on the back porch anymore. He doesn't want to know how late it is, and the lack of lights on inside of Jean's house isn't promising. If he wanted to, he could find Jeremy and ask him to give Neil a ride - but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to let go of tonight. There's a mutual understanding between them that once Neil leaves, things won't be the same. The moment has already slipped away, but Andrew is clinging to whatever remnant he can, desperate for one more taste of Neil before they part. He doesn't want to know what comes next. If there's a way to bottle up one moment in time and live there forever, he'd stay here, under the stars in Jean's backyard. 

But that's what he did with Bakersfield, and he can't take another nightmare. Not one with Neil. 

When he offers Neil a hand up, Andrew notices that he's just barely shivering. They're suddenly standing eye-to-eye, and Andrew shrugs out of his jacket before Neil can protest. He's been fighting the urge to give it to Neil all night. One more thread to connect them, one more reason to stay.

Neil starts to object, but his fingers curl into the leather cuffs possessively. "You don't have to -"

"I want to," Andrew says with a tone of finality, to no further objection. He glances back at the dark house. "You need a ride?" 

"Probably," Neil says, blinking as he looks around the backyard like he hasn't noticed until now that they're completely alone. "You mind?" 

Andrew shakes his head.

This time, the drive isn't quiet. 

The roads are a mess, and the rain pounds against the windows as the Maserati crawls out of Jean's subdivision. Andrew cranks the heat, letting himself get lost in the task at hand. It isn't until Neil relaxes in his periphery that Andrew hears the soft clink of metal, the familiar shade of blue laid across Neil's lap. 

He almost slams on the brakes in the middle of the road.

"Is this...?" 

"It's nothing," Andrew says quickly.

He completely forgot about the collar. He should've at home, but it's a little late for that now that Neil's cradling it like a precious gift. His instinct is to take the collar and bury it in his glove box. When he glances at Neil's face, though, the longing there isn't something Andrew wants to destroy. He lets Neil inspect the collar, running careful fingers across the black stitching, the buckle, the D-ring at the front. Eventually, he pushing the sleeves of Andrew's jacket up so he can more easily trace the shape of it with both hands. 

"It's nice," Neil says. 

Andrew snorts. The collar isn't _nice._ It wasn't custom made, or even well-made. The edges are soft with wear from years ago when Andrew would put it on every night. There are scratches on the buckle, and he's pretty sure one good tug would take the D-ring right off. 

But he can't bring himself to tell Neil it's an old piece of shit because it's _not._ There's a reason Andrew brought it with. A reason he's held onto it after all these years. A reason he never wears it. 

By the time he stops the Mas in front of Neil's building and cuts the engine, neither of them move.

"You weren't supposed to see that." Andrew motions towards the collar - which does, in fact, match Neil's eyes perfectly.

Neil silently offers it back to Andrew, and he takes it back, rubbing the blue leather between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. 

"Why'd you bring it, then?" Neil asks. 

There isn't a good answer to that. He brought it with because he's homesick, which is a feeling he's not equipped to handle. He doesn't have a home. Never has. Probably never will. That doesn't stop him from recognizing the ache in his chest as _homesick._ When he looks at Neil in his faded leather jacket, the glow of the dashboard softening his scars into something otherworldly, that pain sharpens into something acute again.

Andrew doesn't feel like lying. "I used to wear it every day. To feel safe."

"Did it work?"

He shrugs. "Usually." 

Neil casts one last, longing look at the collar in Andrew's hands, as if he really wants to touch it one more time. After a moment, he starts to shrug out of Andrew's jacket, but Andrew puts out a hand to stop him. 

"Keep it."

"Are you sure?" Neil asks, staring down at the cuffed sleeves incredulously. 

"Yeah."

"Tell me this isn't your way of marking me as yours," Neil says. 

"You want the truth?" Andrew asks.

Neil licks his lips, leaning on the center console until he's in Andrew's personal bubble once again. "I want more than the truth, Minyard."

There's something fucking wrong with Andrew. That's the only explanation for his lack of filter around Neil. But there's also something fucking wrong with Neil, apparently, because they both can't seem to stop tormenting each other like this. 

"I like how you look in it," Andrew says. "You should keep it."

Neil tugs at the row of safety pins Andrew has affixed to the front pocket, and then pulls out the pack of Marlboro's and the lighter from inside. "These, too?"

Andrew only rolls his eyes, but he catches Neil's smile as he pockets them like a cheap bastard.

"Time's up," Andrew says. "It's well past your bedtime."

He reaches across to pop the lock and shove the door open, if only for one more excuse to breathe in Neil's scent before he leaves. 

Neil goes. He takes Andrew's cigarettes and his favorite Zippo and his jacket with the little rainbow pin affixed to the sleeve that Renee bought him last year. Andrew would say that Neil takes his entire heart, too, but that would imply that he didn't willingly hand it over weeks ago. 

This time, when Neil gets to the front door, he turns around and waves. Andrew doesn't bother waving back; he's content with watching Neil disappear inside, safe and sound.

He knows this isn't goodbye.

It's just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments feed my cold, dead heart <3 next chapter will be up in approx. 2 weeks! 
> 
> And this is completely unrelated so feel free to stop reading if you're just here for the fic - I made a twitter because I'm trying to break out of my introverted shell and tumblr feels like a bit of a scary commitment to make so I'm starting off small I guess?? I've never had a twitter before but I really want to Try New Things! If you wanna be mutuals over there, drop your @ in the comments or hmu, I'm @passive_phantom (same as on ao3). 
> 
> (honestly I just wanna make friends and chat shit about aftg)


	11. Phoenix from the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! TAGS/WARNINGS (big letters b/c it could be important to someone): BRIEF, NON-SPECIFIC MENTION OF ANDREW’S SCARS at the end of this chapter. Imo it’s not bad but I don’t want anyone getting blind-sighted by that. There is a discussion of breaking points + what it takes to survive. if you have any questions or concerns prior to reading and want me to walk through it with you before you read this chapter, I will gladly do that to the best of my ability on [twitter](https://twitter.com/passive_phantom) or on [tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/passive-phantom) (anon available if that helps), or in the comments below. 
> 
> If you’d rather skip that section, once they get to the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge, just stop reading after the sentence: _“Me of all people,” Neil repeats._
> 
> I’ll stick a summary in the end notes so you don’t miss anything if you do skip.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone.

The problem with being on a break is that Neil does not actually want to be on a break at all. 

Then again, Neil Josten isn’t the type of person to get what he wants, and he’s not quite sure he would know what to do if he did, so it’s probably for the best that he and Andrew aren’t quite on speaking terms at the moment. (When he says that out loud, Kevin snorts and says _Andrew would kill for you, Josten. You have no idea what you’re dealing with)._

Whatever. At the very least, being on a break gives him time to figure out what to do next.

He tries to make a list of all of his reservations about Andrew, which starts and ends with the jacket. Unfortunately. 

It’s a gift that Neil doesn’t quite know what to do with, one he never asked for. It’s just a jacket, he repeats to himself for the thousandth time, but the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach begs to differ because the concept of a gift is a foreign one to Neil. Then again, Andrew’s ambiguity regarding the situation leaves open the possibility that it is not, in fact, a gift. It could be a loan. 

He wants to pretend like that distinction makes a difference, but it doesn't. At the end of the day, he was given Andrew's jacket without having to ask for it. The real problem lies in the mental gap between the act of asking and receiving that he hasn’t quite bridged yet, an inherent understanding of _please_ and _thank you_ that he somehow missed out on growing up. It’s an uncomfortable deficit, one he feels acutely every time he runs his fingers across the smooth, well-worn leather. 

It could be everything he wants. 

It could be nothing at all. 

He arrives at whichever conclusion suits his shifting mood, because it can’t be as simple as Andrew made it seem when he said _I like how you look in it._ Neil doesn’t know if he’d rather that be a truth or a lie. No matter how much he wants to believe that he and Andrew are slowly drifting closer and closer to the same inevitable conclusion, he can’t help but believe that he’s missed out on an integral piece of the equation, or misinterpreted a stray variable along the way. He’s certain that he’ll wake up one day and realize that this was all just a misunderstanding. 

Despite his uncertainty, the jacket has started to become something more. Every night, as it sits abandoned on the edge of his mattress, Neil tells himself that he won't check to see if it smells like Andrew and cigarettes and cologne, but he does. Every damn night, he does.

It only gets worse when he wakes up every morning with one hand curled around the sleeve, greedy with unconscious desire. 

When Kevin sees Neil sitting at the kitchen table on Tuesday morning, the jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape, he openly stares at him. It probably doesn't help that Neil is half-heartedly stirring a bowl of soggy cereal. 

Kevin's scoff and accompanying scornful look clearly convey his message: _you still have no idea what you’re dealing with,_ but he doesn't say it aloud this time.

“Why d’you think Andrew blocked me?” Neil asks between bites. “Doesn’t make sense.”

Kevin stops pouring his coffee. “Seriously?” 

Neil nods. 

“I don’t know,” Kevin says. “Maybe because you have a temper and don’t know when to shut up? Or maybe the two of you are made for each other and that was just his way of taking a break. Fuck if I know. Why aren't you asking _him_ this?” 

An objection is already on Neil’s tongue when he realizes that Kevin isn’t wrong. In fact, it’s a little uncanny how right he is, and it’s times like this that make him remember just how much Kevin understands him on a fundamental level. 

That said, Kevin is also an escape artist, and he’s out the door before Neil gets another word in edgewise. 

“Because _I’m_ on a break _,_ remember?” Neil shouts at the closed door.

Sure, Kevin has some valid points. Neil has a temper. And yes, the only reason he said he was on a break was because Andrew showed up to Jean’s looking completely unruffled after cutting off all contact - hair slicked back, glasses on ( _how did Neil not know Andrew wore glasses?)_ , clothes fashionably wrinkled, cigarette already in hand before he even said hello - and it had pissed Neil the hell off. Jean had warned him in advance that Andrew was coming, but he hadn’t been ready to see him like _that._ Calm, collected, in control. 

He'd kind of wanted to see Andrew fall apart. 

So yeah, _inability to shut up_ describes that whole situation pretty damn well. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he wouldn’t be on a _break._ Which means that arguably, Neil could shoulder some of the responsibility for their shared dysfunction, but he isn’t going to do that. He might be acting like a five year old, but Andrew started it when he blocked him, which wasn’t exactly a subtle move. It was a loud and clear _fuck you_ that Neil decided to turn right back around on Andrew. 

A mutual _fuck you_ , then, he supposes. And one (or both) of them somehow interpreted that as an invitation instead of a warning. 

If he ignores the fact that Andrew put as much physical distance between them for the two-plus hours they spent in Jean’s backyard, and ignores the fact that Andrew glared at him from across the firepit like Neil was a dead man walking, and ignores the fact that he’s pretty sure that he felt at least one knife under Andrew’s sleeve that night - then Neil is ignoring a lot of facts. But that allows him to paint himself a simpler reality where he can pretend that Andrew doesn’t harbor homicidal intent towards him. It uncomplicates things, and Neil likes uncomplicated. 

When he thinks about how he crept across the blankets until he was laying on his back right next to Andrew, staring up at the stars, he realizes just how simple things actually were that night. In that moment, Andrew was a predator, in no need of an invitation. And if he casts aside the volley of mixed signals, Neil knows why he took that chance at the bonfire. He only bridged the gap between their fingers to see what it would feel like, because that was what he wanted.

What he still wants.

That was all it took to snap the tether holding back Andrew’s desires. One second Neil had been staring up at the sky, and the next, Andrew was on top of him, crowding out the clouds and moon and stars, touching him in the exact way he wanted to be touched and leaning towards him with half-lidded eyes and the promise of something more. 

Neil had shuddered under his touch and let the sensations overwhelm him. He closed his eyes and let go. That night, he had trusted Andrew completely, if only for a few seconds. Now, he can’t stop thinking about the enormity of his decision and how natural it felt when he ceased to exist as Neil Josten or Nathaniel Wesninski or any of the other twenty names he’s used over the years. Andrew had somehow transformed Neil into the center of the universe, someone infinite and powerful and dangerous in his own right. Neil saw his own terrible strength reflected in the way Andrew’s mask of control slipped.

In the aftermath, he didn’t stop himself from falling apart. His scars, his burns, his past and present and future - none of it mattered. Andrew expected nothing from him.

In return, Neil can't help but want to give him everything. 

It would have been a perfect moment, but then Andrew's mask had slipped back into place, and it became clear just how completely unaffected he was by Neil. Bored, as usual, although Neil shouldn’t have expected something as innocent as a forehead kiss to shake someone as unshakable as Andrew Minyard. It had been wishful thinking on Neil’s part to expect Andrew to be as affected by Neil’s presence as Neil was by Andrew’s. 

In a perfect world, that night would’ve ended with Andrew asking to be his Dom. In a perfect world, Neil would have been given the jacket _and_ the collar, but he knows that would be greedy. The undeniable flicker of distress that crossed Andrew’s face when he had seen the collar in Neil’s hands had been enough to give Neil pause - a reminder that Andrew is an enigma. 

He also realizes that in a perfect world, he and Andrew would’ve probably never met. 

Whatever. Perfect is overrated. Neil is mostly just fucking tired of feeling confused and alone. He wants to feel like he belongs somewhere, and he thought that being a sub would fix the hole in his chest, but it hasn’t. 

If he had known that Andrew was going to give him the jacket - whatever version of a gift or admission that might or might not have represented - he wouldn’t have said that he was taking a break from Eden’s and Andrew and everything. And _God_ , he’d really said _everything,_ hadn’t he?

Jean’s voice still echoes in his mind on repeat: _what do you actually want, Neil?_

And Neil finally has a real answer.

Before, he wanted a Dom. Now, he wants Andrew.

The problem is he still isn’t used to getting what he wants. Even if he did get the jacket.

\---

After sleeping with Andrew’s jacket for almost an entire week, it doesn't smell like Andrew anymore. It smells overly familiar, like Neil’s own body wash and shampoo, a slightly disgusting mix of peppermint and citrus and vanilla and sweat. 

He spends far too long with the screen popped out of his window, lighting up the leftover pack of Marlboros one-by-one to bring back some small part of Andrew. It doesn’t work, and he can’t seem to chase away his disappointment. 

Coincidentally (or not), once the jacket stops smelling like Andrew, he doesn’t just sleep with it. He wears the damn thing to class and work and everything in between, until he hears Kevin whisper to Thea on more than one occasion, _do you really think he’s okay?_

When he catches his reflection in the window of Jim Bean’s before his last shift of the week, he can see why Kevin might have doubts about his well-being. His curls are a mess, his eyes are ringed unattractively with shadows, and his mouth is turned down in a perpetual scowl. Not a huge departure from normal, but enough that he looks more defeated by life than usual. 

It doesn’t help that finals are coming up. He has better things to do than wonder if Andrew is thinking about him as much as he’s thinking about Andrew - such as surviving the six hour shift that stands between himself and the weekend. Only then can he collapse in his bed and stare at the dark ceiling before drifting off to thoughts of Andrew doing dangerous things to his body. He doesn’t remember when his fantasies became so specific, but he can’t exactly complain when he sees Andrew in every single one of them. 

When Neil shoves the front door of Jim Bean’s open, the bells jingle. Dan is alone behind the counter, a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. For a second, Neil thinks they’re going to have a quiet, uneventful shift. 

Then the bathroom door slams open and Matt steps out, immediately breaking into a grin.

“Neil, buddy!” He shouts, putting out his arms for a hug that Neil barely slips out of. It doesn’t faze Matt in the least. “It’s been forever!” 

It hasn’t been forever, Neil thinks, but it has been a couple of weeks since he remembers seeing Matt around. Maybe a couple of weeks _is_ forever to Matt, though. And actually, he’d been meaning to ask Dan about Matt’s absence but hadn't, because he didn’t want to make things weird in case they’d broken up. 

“Nice jacket,” Dan says, in a way that makes it clear there are about to be _words,_ whether he’s ready or not. Not that Neil understands why she'd be interested in a change in his wardrobe. “Where’d you get it?” 

Neil escapes towards the storage closet in hopes that ignoring Dan’s entire line of conversation will make it disappear. He does, however, throw a quick, “Hi, Matt,” over his shoulder to be polite.

Andrew’s jacket gets safely tucked into the space between the bulk cleaners and dry goods, as far from the smell of coffee beans and sour milk as possible. He trails his fingers across the leather before tying on his apron, and by the time he reappears out front, Dan’s book is hidden beneath the counter and her chin is in her hands.

It isn’t the first time he’s failed to avoid a conversation via the ignorance-is-bliss technique. He’s starting to think he needs new techniques.

“Your jacket,” Dan repeats. “It’s nice.”

Matt is sitting next to the espresso machine fiddling with one of the knobs, so Neil chooses to focus on the blatant health code violation in front of them.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Neil tells him, then turns to Dan, since rules and Matt don’t always mix. “He’s not supposed to be back here.”

“Who’s gonna tell on me?” Matt asks, right as the plastic knob snaps off in his hand. 

“He’s basically harmless,” Dan says, ignoring the destruction Matt is already causing. “Anyways -”

She’s interrupted by a customer entering the shop. 

Approximately ten seconds after taking their order, Dan shoves their order in Neil’s hand and hisses _we’re not done talking yet_ before turning to smile broadly at the next caffeine-addicted student that has appeared in front of them. 

Three chai teas and four lattes later, Neil has steamed milk dripping down his wrists thanks to the now-broken espresso machine, but Dan still hasn’t forgotten her original question. She tracks him down in the back, washing his arms up to his elbows. 

“So the jacket -”

“It’s not mine,” Neil tells her, hoping that it will kill her curiosity. Unfortunately, that only seems to draw her attention more.

She pushes the door of the storage room open to get a better look at the jacket. “Yeah, genius, that's why I'm asking. You usually wear a windbreaker straight out of the 80’s. Seriously, did you steal this? Should I be worried? It looks too nice for you.” 

“I didn’t steal it,” Neil snaps, heading back out front to more waiting customers. 

He’s halfway through taking a nice old woman’s order when Dan leans past him to set a mocha with extra whip on the counter with a smirk. As soon as Neil hands the woman her debit card, Dan whispers, “It’s the guy you told me about, isn’t it?” 

“It’s _not_ ,” he hisses back.

Inexplicably, Matt chooses that moment to flash him a thumbs up. Neil has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

Once the rush has calmed down to a reasonable level and the only customers left are the ones studying, Dan sets a paper cup full of something black and heavily caffeinated in front of Neil.

“Spill,” she says. “Who broke your heart this week?”

“No one,” Neil says, taking a sip of whatever concoction she’s made. It’s not too sweet, so after a quick taste, he downs it in two gulps and adds, “This is good. You should make it more often.”

“It’s straight black coffee, Neil,” she says with a frown and an air of incredulity that says _how the fuck did you get this job._ To be fair, Neil doesn’t know, either. “That doesn’t answer my question. Whose is it?” 

“Just a friend’s,” Neil says. 

“You’re acting weird, Josten,” Matt says from his (unsanitary) perch on the counter. “We’d know if you had other friends.”

“ _Other?”_ Neil asks, but Dan doesn’t hear him because she’s already headed back to the storage closet.

When she returns, she looks a little like she’s just seen a ghost, and she's holding the jacket like it’s a dead skunk.

“It’s Balmain,” she announces, as though that means anything at all.

“Fuck,” Matt mutters, and apparently it _does_ mean something. 

Neil hazards what he hopes is a non-incriminating question. “What’s Balmain?”

Dan mutters something under her breath before pulling out her phone and shoving it in Neil’s face. 

The bold white letters across the screen advertise _BALMAIN PARIS,_ and even though Neil knows absolutely nothing about fashion or retail or Balmain, it looks expensive. She clicks on one of the listings, which matches the jacket in her hands exactly, and the price appears on the screen: _$4,805 USD._

It changes nothing.

Neil rolls his eyes and grabs the washrag because he has a _job_ to do. He starts wiping up day-old spilled milk from under the blender because that's what he gets paid for. God knows who worked this morning, because they sure as hell didn’t bother cleaning up, and since when is milk so hard to get off?

He jumps when Dan materializes behind him, still holding the jacket.

“You should stop before you hurt yourself,” she says, prying the rag from his hand gently. As if some crusty milk could hurt someone like Neil, who has survived bullets and knives and burns and torture. It’s absurd. What could _milk_ do to him?

But God, almost $5000 - Andrew should’ve fucking said something. Did he expect Neil to just _guess_ that he’d been loaned some kind of high-end designer jacket worth more than four months’ rent? How was Neil supposed to just _know_ that? Or maybe he actually should’ve realized it sooner, and this is one of those situations where everyone else knows exactly what Balmain is and Neil does not. 

Not that this changes anything, because it doesn't. 

... But what if it's damaged? He’s been _sleeping with_ and _sweating on_ a $5000 jacket for the past week - 

“I think he’s lovesick,” Matt says. 

Neil’s scowl only deepens in response and he snags the rag back from Dan, moving on to the toaster oven. It probably hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, if the blackened bits of food on the bottom are anything to go by.

“Neil,” Dan snaps her fingers. “Earth to Neil.” 

“Yup. Lovesick,” Matt says. 

“I’m not _lovesick,_ ” Neil hisses, trying his best to sound every inch the son of the Butcher instead of a boy who’s spent the past God-knows how many nights reliving the feel of Andrew’s hand against his cheek. 

“You’re too cute,” Matt says, reaching out to fluff Neil’s hair. Neil jerks out of reach on instinct, but Matt isn’t bothered. He never is. “Whatever, little dude. Who’s the lucky lady?” 

_Andrewandrewandrew-_ “No one.”

“Not lady,” Dan corrects, turning to Neil. “It’s the guy who told you to fuck off, isn’t it?” Under her breath, to Matt, she adds, “Guy’s a real asshole.” 

“No,” Neil says to both counts, but they don’t admit defeat. In fact, Matt decides to sit right next to the toaster Neil is working on (another violation - the health inspector would have a field day) for a front row seat to Neil’s fast-approaching breakdown. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Dan says. 

“Yeah, terrible,” Matt agrees. 

That’s true irony, Neil supposes. Learn to let a couple of people in, and suddenly they’re seeing past decades of carefully practiced defenses. 

He tries not to dwell on that, especially since he should be trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. _This situation_ meaning Dan and Matt and Andrew and Balmain and $5000 of potential property damage. (Is there a way to wash sweat out of leather? Neil doesn’t know.)

He can’t exactly mail Andrew’s jacket back, mostly because he has no idea where Andrew lives and has no idea how much postal insurance costs for that kind of thing. There’s also the small detail of not knowing how much of a slight sending it back would be towards Andrew. 

Not for the first time, he’s reminded of how little he knows about Andrew. Does he have the kind of money that makes $5000 look like pocket change, or the kind that would make it look like a fortune? Either way, Neil gets the feeling that returning a $5000 jacket isn’t as simple as returning a $50 one. 

He goes back to making the toaster oven shine. This time, Matt and Dan wait in tandem silence for an explanation, which it turns out is worse than listening to their speculation. 

Neil finally rolls his eyes at them when he’s done scraping debris out of the toasting tray. “He’s no one.” 

“Sure,” Dan agrees breezily. “But does Mr. No One give everyone $5000 jackets, or just you? Because it sounds like one of you isn’t aware of the sugar baby relationship going on here and I’m starting to think it’s you.” 

“I’m not his sugar baby,” Neil says, because he’s _not._

Or he’s pretty sure he’s not, at least. That doesn't seem like something Andrew is into.

“Does he take you on dates to nice restaurants and give you fancy clothes and drive you around in a super expensive car?” 

The Maserati comes to mind, unfortunately. He remembers the way the blue lights of the dashboard looked reflected across Andrew’s expression, the way he worried about sweating on the leather seats, and he can't help but wonder if sweating on Andrew's leather going to be a recurrent theme in his life now.

“I’m not his sugar baby,” Neil repeats. 

Matt interrupts from his spot on the counter. “Are you guys dating, even? Or is it like … a sex thing?” 

Neil doesn’t know what either of those mean, especially coming from Matt. 

“Neither?” He answers, trying to pass off the question in his voice as disinterest. It’s one of Andrew’s mannerisms, he realizes, and he bites his tongue as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. 

He’s not used to feeling so confused. He couldn’t answer Matt’s question if he wanted to, because where he and Andrew are concerned, there’s only a giant question mark in his mind. He wishes the line separating him and Andrew was easier to navigate, without contracts and collars and limits and safewords and the best pain Neil’s ever felt in his life, but he feels like removing all of those things would leave them with an unfathomable nothing that neither of them are prepared to deal with.

“Okay, but more importantly,” Matt says, “How old is he? Fifty? Or like twenty? Because that makes a big difference.” 

Neil shrugs. Again, he doesn’t have an answer. Andrew doesn’t look much older than him, and he’d kind of assumed he was a student or recent grad at most. But he doesn’t _know._

“But you’re obsessed with him,” Matt clarifies, and Neil only nods after realizing how true that statement is. “You’re wearing his clothes, probably waiting for his next phone call -” (Matt doesn’t know how right he is, or maybe he does, which means Neil is getting too easy to read) “- and lying about how much he means to you. How serious is it? Do you guys go on, like, _dates_? Or just sex things -”

“Matt, shut up. No more sex talk. It’s not helpful,” Dan punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving Neil an apologetic look. 

“No dates,” Neil says. “I've never been on a date. We just held hands, kind of? And then … that happened.” He points to the jacket, and both Dan and Matt’s eyes follow his direction in the saddest, most drawn-out arc. 

“That’s … weird, I think,” Matt says, at the same time as Dan says, “You can’t be serious, Neil.” 

He is, much to their dismay.

“We need to fix this,” Dan says, and by the end of his shift, Neil is not going home to his bed to imagine what it feels like to have Andrew’s hands on his body.

No, he’s apparently going to Café Bertrand for a date. 

\---

The most irritating parts of being on a date are: Dan has told Neil six times to chew with his mouth closed, Matt pulled out Neil's chair before he sat down as though he was some kind of invalid, and the server keeps putting baskets of bread on the table. Infinite bread.

Neil does not need infinite bread. He also doesn't need to go on a date, but Matt and Dan were convinced this is some kind of right-of-passage.

“Usually this is when you make small talk,” Dan says as soon as they’ve ordered. She pointedly stares at the cloth napkin Neil is folding into a triangle in his lap. “Not origami. What do you know about him?” 

Neil sets his napkin masterpiece on the plate, which Matt promptly replaces with a piece of bread. 

“His name is Andrew,” Neil starts, and then he stops. He doesn’t feel comfortable saying _he’s the dreamiest Dom I’ve ever met and he makes me feel safe even though Thea keeps making murder jokes about him and he could definitely kill me with his bare hands but so could I, and regardless, I like knowing how much power I have over him._ He also doesn’t want to wax poetic about Andrew’s mouth or the freckles on his ear or the way he always positions himself like a wall between Neil and the rest of the world, so he shrugs. “That’s it.”

Dan looks like she’s about to break her wine glass, but Matt takes it from her, replacing it with a piece of bread. 

“Look,” Matt says placatingly, as though he's not holding a chunk of sourdough in each hand. “At least that means you’ll have a lot to talk about, right? Like what he does for a living. Ask me about my life, Neil.” 

“How’s your life?”

“No,” Matt says, dropping one of his pieces of bread into Dan’s purse, and Neil feels like he’s in some kind of fever dream. “That’s low effort. Watch. So, Dan, what do you do for a living?”

“How considerate of you to ask,” she says. “I’m mostly a student right now, minus Jim Bean’s.” 

“Me, too!” Matt gushes. “What do you study?” 

Neil feels like the conversation is wooden and fake, especially since Matt’s acting is terrible. He’s only listening because he has never asked Dan what she’s studying and now he feels like he should probably know that. 

“Biomedical engineering,” she says. Not exactly what Neil expected, mostly because all of the engineer majors he's seen in class can't stop talking about it, and Dan hasn't mentioned it once. “Neil, your turn.”

Their eyes are on him suddenly, and he takes advantage of the endless break and fills his mouth as a distraction. 

“C’mon,” Matt says. He subtly passes the empty bread basket to their server, and Neil sighs in relief.

Until the basket comes back ten seconds later, full of fresh bread. 

“This is weird,” Neil mutters, his mouth still full.

“Not weird,” Matt says. He puts Neil’s hand on top of Dan’s. “Like this. Now look into her eyes and ask her whatever you want to know. But use, like, a sexy voice. Not a whisper, but low. Lower than that. And lean in while you do it. Okay, try again.”

Neil is nudged forward a little, and Dan nods encouragingly while he clears his throat.

“ _What’s with the bread?”_ He whispers. 

Matt groans. “Neil, you’re not taking this _seriously._ ”

“And you are?” He retorts, motioning towards Dan's purse, which has somehow accumulated what could be an entire loaf's worth of bread now. “Look, it’s not working. I’m just going to text Andrew and ask him to take his jacket back -”

Dan takes the phone from Neil's hand before he even has Andrew’s contact opened. 

“Do you trust me?” She asks.

Neil doesn’t, but he knows Dan thinks of herself as one of his closest friends. Besides Kevin and Thea, she’s not wrong. 

“Sort of?” 

"Great," she says. She types something out and presses send before handing Neil’s phone back, a smile on her face as their food is set on the table in front of them. 

“Now we wait.” 

\---

Andrew’s Maserati is parked outside before Neil finishes his fettuccini, which both confuses and excites him. Like much of what Andrew does. 

He still hasn’t looked at the text Dan sent, and he’s not sure he wants to know what she said. But when Neil spotted the sleek black car pulling into the parking lot ten minutes ago, he knew it had to be Andrew. 

“Your boy going to come in?” Matt asks. 

They’re still waiting on the bill, and with Dan in the bathroom, Neil weighs his odds of escaping out the back exit. He knows Matt and Dan won’t give him a ride now that Andrew is here, but he can’t exactly run home through the almost-freezing rain this late at night. Which leaves Andrew as his only viable option.

“Probably not,” Neil says. “He’s quiet. Doesn’t do...this.” 

Matt nods sympathetically. “He’s got good taste, though. Nice car. Nice jacket. And he likes _you_ , right? So he can’t be that bad.” 

Neil fights back the urge to protest that statement. Andrew has terrible taste in cigarettes and alcohol, but Neil is willing to concede that the Maserati drives like a dream and the jacket feels like a second skin. He just doesn’t know if Andrew really likes him. Even if Andrew does like him, Neil doesn't know if that's a sign of good taste. 

Matt whistles low. “You really have it bad, don’t you?”

For once, Neil doesn’t bother with the lies and denial. He digs past the layer of frustrated denial that comes with all things Andrew and finds it unexpectedly cathartic to say, “I’d take a bullet for him.” 

Matt laughs as though Neil is being funny. He’s not; he rubs his shoulder because he knows exactly how fucking much it hurts to take a bullet. He has the scars to prove it, and it terrifies him to realize that there’s only ever been one person he’d take a bullet for. 

The fact that he scraped together enough of a heart to feel anything for Andrew is nothing short of a miracle.

“Just make sure he’d do the same for you, okay?” Matt says. “If he’s got Balmain-level money, he should be treating you right.” 

Their server drops the billfold on the table, and Neil catches a glimpse of the edge of Matt’s credit card as he slides it inside - an Amex Platinum card. Neil would recognize it anywhere; it’s the card his Uncle Stuart uses ( _used_ ?), identical except for the name on the bottom: _M D Boyd._

Neil can feel Matt’s gaze on him cautiously.

“You’ve never heard of Balmain but you recognize an Amex Platinum card on sight,” Matt says after a pause. “What gives?” 

“I could ask you the same thing ... you’re a college student with an Amex Platinum card," Neil says. “What gives?” 

The server takes the check back.

“Fair enough," Matt concedes.

By the time Dan gets back, Matt's Amex is already back in his wallet, the bill settled without protest from Neil.

She pushes aside half a sourdough baguette in her purse to pull her wallet out, digging through an assortment of singles and fives while Neil watches. Matt shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not saying a thing. 

“Okay, if we’re splitting, I’ve got … twenty-two fifty, plus a tip, just let me check if I have any change left for the bus -”

“Andrew paid it already,” Neil says, staring straight at Matt, challenging him to tell Dan the truth.

“Are you shitting me?” Dan groans. “He even didn’t wait for me to say hi?” 

Neil shrugs. “What can I say? He's a generous guy."

“Generous,” Matt scoffs. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use, Matt?” Neil asks. Deception used to fit him like a glove, but right now it makes him feel sick. He understands something deeper is happening here when he suggests, “Fraud, maybe? Or liar?” 

There’s a moment where it seems like Dan senses the second conversation lurking beneath their words, but she eventually shakes her head and stands up.

“Don’t pick on Andrew, Matt. We trust Neil’s judgement, right?” 

Once they’re outside, Dan gives Neil a quick hug and Matt pops the collar on Neil’s ( _Andrew’s_ ) jacket before they wave goodbye.

Across the lot, Neil sees the Maserati’s brights flash twice. Another warning, another invitation. He’s starting to think they’re one and the same when it comes to Andrew, which would explain a lot. 

He could still walk away from this, but after everything, he doesn’t think Andrew would give him another chance. 

As soon as he’s within shouting distance of the Mas, Andrew rolls down the passenger window.

“You look ridiculous. Get in.”

Naturally, Neil does. He settles in the seat, wiping stray raindrops from his sleeves while Andrew turns up the heat. 

“You smell like a wet dog,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Plus coffee. And what the hell did you do to my jacket?” 

“You’re just full of compliments tonight,” Neil grumbles. Before he can take the jacket off, Andrew leans over the center console and runs a thumb across the collar that Matt just popped.

“Is that _glitter?_ ” 

Neil freezes. He kind of forgot that his body wash has shimmer in it, since he's not used to worrying about getting glitter on his thrift-store clothes.

Andrew inspects the flicker of rainbow that sparkles on his thumb. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says. 

“Do you want it back?” Neil asks. “Dan said it was $5000 so I can get it dry-cleaned first, if that's how it works -”

“You’re an idiot,” Andrew repeats as he slides the car into first and pulls out of the lot. Neil can’t help but feel the tug of excitement low in his gut as soon as they’re on the road, but he tries not to let it show. 

“Right. You said that already. But that still doesn’t answer my question.” 

“Doesn't it?” Andrew asks, taking a turn far too fast for Neil’s liking. “If I wanted it back, I would've asked for it. I’m not here to play games. Just cut to the chase, Josten. You said you needed my help.”

 _Help._ Of course Neil needs help. He’ll need help to hide the evidence once he’s done dealing with Dan for impersonating him and texting Andrew that he needs _help._

The last fucking thing he needs is _help._

Neil folds his hands in his lap, then refolds them when it doesn’t inspire a response. 

“Any day now,” Andrew prompts him, fingers drumming on the wheel while they wait at a red light. 

He’s tempted to explain that Dan sent whatever text Andrew is referring to, but he hesitates. This could be an opportunity to take back what he said about being on a break last weekend, and a nebulous idea starts to form in his head as he watches the raindrops splash against the window.

"What if I don’t want to be on a break anymore?"

“That doesn't translate into an emergency that needs my help."

Neil is really starting to wonder what Dan wrote in that text. 

“I want to submit again," he says. 

“Still not an emergency, unless our definitions of _emergency_ vary,” Andrew retorts. There's a moment where the only sound that fills the car is the engine purring, before Andrew quietly adds, "That doesn’t mean you’re ready." 

“Maybe not,” Neil says. “I still don’t think - I’m worried that I’ll react badly the next time I’m alone with a Dom.”

“You’re alone with a Dom now,” Andrew says. His voice is still casual, but there’s an intensity in his gaze now that sharpens all of Neil’s senses. He realizes that they aren’t on familiar territory anymore when Andrew puts the car in park. They’re in front of a bar, its neon sign reflected across the hood of the Maserati: _Green Mill Cocktail Lounge._ The lights blink in a lazy pattern as Andrew asks, “So how does it feel?”

Neil thinks about all of the frustration and confusion and disappointment and hope that’s been swirling in his gut. He wonders if there’s an easy way to say that he wants a second chance, especially when he doesn’t know if he’s even earned it. 

"I'm not afraid," Neil finally says.

Andrew doesn't bother with a reply. He gets out of the car and motions for Neil to follow as he pushes open the door to the Green Mill. 

Inside, the room is empty of patrons but filled with smoke. The same neon green lights as outside are flashing above the bar, but Andrew doesn’t linger in the main area. He heads straight towards the back, stopping only briefly to put a twenty on the bar before he pushes open a door that says STAFF ONLY.

The room they end up in is dark and small but there’s a bare table and a couple of chairs, and Andrew doesn't hesitate to make himself at home. Neil doesn't move from the doorway.

“You standing all night or what?” Andrew asks, tapping a pack of cigarettes against the table that he's materialized from a pocket somewhere along the way. He kicks out the chair next to him and motions for Neil to sit. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a shitty liar?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Neil says, thinking back to Matt and Dan.

“Don’t lie to me again, Neil.”

“I didn’t li-”

“You said you're not afraid of me,” Andrew says, and Neil immediately shuts up. The shift in the air between them feels electric as Andrew reaches over to flatten the lapels on Neil’s jacket. “Why are you still wearing this?” 

_Because I wanted to feel close to you. Because I made a mistake. Because you fucked up, too, and this feels like a two-way apology._

"I can take it off," Neil offers.

"That's not what I asked," Andrew says. "Just answer the question. Why?" 

"Because I look good in it, remember?"

Andrew snorts, and turns over the pack of cigarettes in his hands before looking up at Neil with an accusation in his eyes. "You'd look better without it." 

"Do you want it back or not?" Neil asks, frustrated by Andrew's indecision as he shrugs out of the jacket. "Look, you can take it back. I just think we’re good together. Maybe good isn’t the right word - we're better together.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Really? Because I've done just fine without you.” 

Neil fights the urge to squirm in his seat as he blushes, and he lays the jacket across his lap. “But you could do better.” 

“Do I seem like the type of person who wants to do _better?_ I thought you of all people wouldn’t suggest something so obviously shortsighted.” 

The single lightbulb flickers above them. They both know there’s a time limit right now, a countdown to the end of this conversation that both of them have been avoiding, but neither of them hurry. 

“Me of all people,” Neil repeats. 

Andrew moves slowly, his hand resting on Neil’s bare forearm. He traces the scars across the back of Neil’s hand until they curve towards his elbow, criss-crossing and intersecting each other.

“I’ve never wanted to be better,” Andrew says, leaning in. 

Neil has a brief, disorienting moment where he hears Matt’s voice from earlier: _look into her eyes, ask her what you want to know. Use a sexy voice - low. Lean in._

And then he rewinds their current conversation: _you'd look better without it._

Andrew is doing everything that Matt said Neil should do on a date to show interest - leaning in, talking in a voice that sounds like silk - well, minus looking Neil in the eyes. Actually, Andrew is staring at his lips right now, and _fuck,_ Neil realizes five minutes too late exactly what this means. 

“What do you really want?” Andrew asks. "This has never been about being _better."_

Neil swallows, licking his lips. Andrew tracks the movement but stays frozen in place as he waits for an answer. 

“I want to know what _you_ want,” Neil says.

“Stop being smart with me. I asked you first.”

Neil’s words are an impossibility brought to life, but he breathes as much warmth into them as his reply slips out: “I want to be yours.”

“Mine,” Andrew says, this time placing his fingers on the pulse point of Neil’s neck. “You think you know what that word means?”

Neil swallows, feels the pads of Andrew’s fingertips press tighter into his throat. 

“Yes.” 

Andrew doesn’t move closer this time. Instead, he pulls Neil forward, his hand on the scruff of Neil's neck as he tilts his head sideways for easy access, trailing his mouth against the skin just under Neil’s ear. 

“I’ll destroy you,” he whispers, his tongue moving across the juncture of bone and skin on Neil’s jaw. “I’ll take everything you have left. I’ll burn you until there’s nothing but ashes. I fuck, Neil, and then I move on. Is that really what you want?” 

Andrew’s finger traces the burn scar on Neil’s cheek while he keeps him held firmly in place, his breath cooling the place he just licked. If he wanted to, Neil could easily twist out of Andrew’s grip, but he wants this - no, he wants more than this, but he'll take whatever Andrew is willing to give. 

“Answer me, Neil,” Andrew says, his voice softer, bordering on encouragement. 

“It's what I want,” Neil repeats, and it isn't exactly a lie. He doesn't want to fuck and move on, but this is compromise, right? Finding middle ground? 

Andrew lets go of him and Neil feels the sudden distance between them like an ache.

“You’re either more stupid or more fucked up than I originally gave you credit for, Josten.”

Andrew pulls his hand away from the burn scar on Neil's cheek, but he isn’t fucking around now. He takes Andrew’s hand and slides it around the back of his own neck, under his shirt, until he knows from the expression on Andrew’s face that he feels the burn scar on Neil's back.

Neil’s tone is soft, far more gentle than the ridges of his healed skin, but his words, drenched in anger - at himself, at Andrew, at life and every shitty thing that's made them like this - are pure venom. 

“You think I’ll be so easily destroyed, Andrew? You think I’ll _let_ you take anything from me that I wouldn’t willingly give? You think I haven’t started over from nothing before? I’m a fucking phoenix. Just try and fucking _burn_ me, see what happens.” 

He realizes, belatedly, that he’s furious. His hands are shaking, his muscles aching as he feels himself slip into the temper his parents gave him, because he isn’t _breakable._ He thought Andrew understood that survival was written into Neil's blood and bones upon his birth. He thought that the connection he felt with Andrew was a reflection of that inability to die. 

But these words aren't enough.

Andrew thinks Neil is defenseless, or weak, or _something_ , and Neil just wants to be known, so he does what he does best. He slowly slides the tips of his fingers under Andrew’s sleeve, and Andrew doesn’t move, so Neil runs his hand up Andrew’s wrist until he finds the knife strapped in place. He pulls it out and inspects the blade in the reflection of the incandescent bulb before holding it out to Andrew, handle first. 

“You want to see my destruction? Do it yourself.”

It’s closer to a declaration of homicidal intent than it is to a declaration of undying love, but Neil's emotions are a visceral impulse coursing through his veins. He doesn't want to hold back anymore.

Andrew takes the knife and runs a finger along the blade almost reverently before tossing it onto the table in front of them. 

“Don’t fuck with me, Josten.”

“Don’t fuck with _me._ I told you what I want. It's your turn now." 

Neil wonders how far he can push this. It's not his smartest idea, since he's in the backroom of a bar in a part of town he's never been to, sitting across from a man who has both the means and motive to kill him, but he's never felt more powerful than he does in this moment. 

"I thought I made it clear," Andrew says. "I want to wreck you beyond recognition. I want to break you down, piece by piece, until there's no way to put you back together again. I want to see the fear in your eyes while you fall apart."

Andrew hooks his foot around the leg of Neil's chair and tugs it closer, the wood scraping against the floor. Their knees touch, and Andrew puts his hands palm-up in the space between them. Another invitation, Neil thinks. Slowly, he takes Andrew's hands in his own and watches the weak and fluttering pulse of a vein that cuts across Andrew’s thumb on a diagonal. He traces the line of it, right up until it disappears under the cuff of Andrew’s sleeve. 

“Don’t,” Andrew says, and Neil stops. 

He won't push Andrew on this, because he already has an idea of what lies beyond. He's seen enough of Andrew's scars - just glimpses of an inch of skin when Andrew reached for a glass at Eden's - to know that the damage must be extensive. The hesitation is clear on Andrew’s face, a mixture of desire and regret and pain and anger. 

“You’ve seen mine,” Neil reminds him. 

“Yours are different.” 

Neil rubs at the burn scar on his own wrist, a remnant of his own living nightmare. 

“Are they?” He asks. The raised skin feels rough under his fingers, and he wonders if he’ll eventually forget what it felt like to be unmarked, if his skin will feel like his own again someday. “I didn’t survive because I fought. Everyone has a breaking point, and they found mine. Eventually, I gave up.”

“But you survived,” Andrew says.

“So did you.” 

They stare at each other for a few moments, both too stunned by their silence to break it. 

And then it happens. A slow, deliberate movement that starts with Andrew taking off his shirt. He doesn’t show Neil his scars, though. Instead, he turns until his back is bared, an expanse of pale skin broken only by stray freckles and four words tattooed down his spine. 

“May I?” Neil asks, and he gets a wordless nod in response. 

He runs his fingers across the bony prominences of Andrew’s vertebrae, skirting the round curve of a _B_ and the delicate curl of an _E,_ the precise corners of an _N_. 

_nothing left to burn_

He doesn’t know if he wants to find out what it means, but this feels like it was written just for him. 

Andrew turns to face him. For a second, the scars along his arms are on full display, his shirt balled up in his fists.

By the time his shirt is back on, Andrew's face is back to its bored expression, but Neil sees it for what it is: a placid sky reflected across the surface of troubled waters. A whirlpool swirling beneath, barely contained.

Andrew cracks each of the knuckles on his right hand once, twice, before standing. Neil doesn't know if he's meant to follow until he hears the click of the keys to the Mas flicking open.

Andrew pushes open the door to the main room and pauses. His voice is a knife so sharp that Neil barely feels the sting of his words. 

“Tell me again that I survived.” 

Neil doesn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: my goal is ~Oct 11 but I'm travelling for a funeral this week + might have another delay so if it's not quite on time again, I'm sorry, just know it's in the works! 
> 
> Summary: Neil tries to say they’re both survivors. Andrew takes off his shirt to prove a point, that point being he has a massive back tattoo that says _nothing left to burn_ over his spine, and Neil traces it very slowly. Andrew says _Tell me again that I survived_ and Neil can’t. /end summary.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for sticking around :)


	12. Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +1 Thea Muldani appreciation chapter.
> 
> WARNINGS/TAGS: Neil jerks off to thoughts of Andrew + has conflicted feelings about it immediately afterwards (regrets it, thinks negatively about it, but damn did it feel good). He weirds himself out cleaning it up too, and feels like he’s done something wrong (spoiler, he hasn’t). Also he has anxiety/not-a-full-blown-panic-attack-but-the-makings-of-one, and his coping mechanisms are kind of shit. If these are topics you don’t want to read him have a mini internal meltdown about, skip the first section!
> 
> any typos are thanks to editing on my phone, sorry!!

When Neil wakes up almost sick with restless energy the next morning, his head is pillowed across Andrew’s jacket. As is habit now, apparently, since Andrew didn't take it back the previous night when he had the chance. It does little to comfort him now, though. 

The pounding in his chest is almost normal by now, and the racing thoughts urging him to _go_ aren't at all unfamiliar. But every time this happens, Neil hopes - naively, foolishly - that it will be the last time. He can't exactly be surprised when this feeling shows up like clockwork when he's stressed or tired or overworked or annoyed. Especially since he's refused therapy for years.

Not that he isn't working on it. He _is,_ just not in the way that Kevin would call 'productive'. 

Neil flips onto his back, trying to focus on something other than the clawing feeling in his chest. His mind is at war with itself, trying to convince his body to simultaneously stay in place and get out. Ironically, it's a technique that Kevin taught him that stops him from making a mistake right now. 

He makes a list of things to ground himself - one for each of the senses: hearing, sight, smell, taste, touch. He would usually let his brain wear itself out by staring at the ceiling while his thoughts run wild. Sometimes, he'll run until his legs ache and his lungs burn and he can hear nothing but the steady echo of his own breath inside of his mind, until the running turns from escape into relief. 

There isn't time to wait it out today, though. He has finals to study for, so he starts with the easiest. He sees Andrew’s jacket, tastes stale mouthwash from brushing his teeth last night, smells the off-brand laundry detergent he uses to wash his sheets, hears someone in the unit below them turn on the shower.

He pauses when he gets to touch, because the first and only thing he thinks about is his dick pressed against his thigh, painfully hard. Apparently it hasn't gotten the memo that his brain is currently planning the quickest route to Charleston International Airport. 

It's a first.

Not the morning wood - that happens often enough that he usually tries to ignore it. Sometimes it's easier for him to go back to sleep than to wait for it to go down, but his racing mind isn't going to let him sleep right now. Plus, if he wants to be an optimist about this, he needs something to keep himself away from the sharp-edged whispers telling him it'd be so easy to leave.

It's the first time that he ends up abandoning Kevin’s list method and embracing a new coping method of his own: jerking off.

Usually, he only gets off if he's deliberate about it, although he supposes there's something quite deliberate about using his own body to distract himself out of an impending meltdown. But today, with his hand against his own skin, this feels like comfort food. Simple and familiar and warm and filling. It doesn't have to be complicated with toys or porn for it to feel amazing. 

And it _does_ feel amazing, so much so that his mind lets go of whatever anxieties nipped at his heels on the way out of sleep this morning. He embraces the distraction before realizing exactly what he’s committing to, and almost stops dead in his tracks when he starts to imagine what Andrew's tattoo had felt like beneath his fingers last night. 

He doesn’t know if he likes this turn of events, especially when he replays that moment on a loop, the taught pull of skin against bone unforgiving to his touch. It feels wrong, somehow, to trap himself in the memory of Andrew pulling off his shirt while Neil has his boxers around his thighs, too lazy to kick them off completely. It's a mish-mash of Andrew’s hardest edges with Neil’s softest ones, but it’s not enough that he stops touching himself. It’s almost easy to forget about his agitation for a few minutes like this. Maladaptive? Probably. But he'll take whatever relief he can get right now.

He runs fingers across the sweat-damp skin of his abdomen, sticky from where he’d been curled around a spare pillow all night, and wonders if it would feel different coming from Andrew. Better, maybe. Neil clenches his jaw and tries not to make a sound as he pictures Andrew in bed next to him, still sleep-slow and full of the kind of unhurried lassitude that makes mornings so ethereal, encouraging him on with the spark of something more lurking behind a glazed expression.

For once, Neil wants to tease this fantasy out to its natural end. He pictures the muscles flexing across Andrew’s back, the intercostals and rhomboids and obliques contracting underneath Neil’s fingers with every breath and shiver. It wasn’t a sexual moment at the time, Neil thinks, but there’s no way he’s going to think of Andrew’s tattoo the same way after this.

There's a small part of his brain that says Andrew trusted him with the indelible marks of his past, only to have Neil turn around and use it as fodder to get off, but he pushes aside that thought for now. The inky _n_ _othing left to burn_ isn't just a promise. It's a prayer, a wish, a declaration of war, and Neil takes it as such. 

Mostly, he just wants to prove Andrew wrong. He wants to tell him that there’s still a whole wide world out there to set on fire, and he feels the low tug of his climax start to grow, imagining what parts of Andrew's body Neil would whisper those words into, a benediction for every inch of skin he's allowed to worship. 

But in reality, he’s alone in his bedroom jerking off to a memory to avoid his own demons, so he can’t actually do any of that. And that’s the disappointing part of fantasy: it doesn’t last. That doesn't stop him from tightening his grip and increasing his pace, until he's stifling a groan and coming across his own stomach. He feels good, for lack of a better word, and he breathes out a sigh of relief for the endorphins or whatever is floating around inside of his head that offers a temporary relief from rational thought. 

Unfortunately, his bliss only lasts for a few seconds. The jizz on his stomach hasn’t even started to dry and he’s already started thinking of what he'd put in his backpack, if he'd leave a note for Kevin or a couple months' rent as a belated apology, how he'd buy the bus ticket out of town, how many hours it'd take to get to Augusta or Raleigh or Nashville. What he’d need to bring, who he’d need to avoid, what he’d do with his phone so he couldn’t be tracked - 

It started as a calming habit a few years ago, one he would indulge in when he first stepped into the _Neil Josten_ identity to remind himself that his situation wasn’t permanent. Although it feels very permanent now, or perhaps he just wants it to be, which means his panic doesn’t exactly make sense. He _knows_ that he doesn’t want to leave behind the meager life he’s built for himself, but thoughts of his escape (and he mocks himself: _escape from what?)_ plague him. 

It turns out that impulsively jerking off to thoughts of Andrew complicates things. He’s done it before, but the context has always been a vague _what if_. He’s used to thoughts of Andrew’s cigarettes, his shoulders, the harsh line of his jaw, the rough scrape of his voice when Neil imagines all of the ways he could make Andrew feel good. He's always drawn the line at using actual memories as fodder to masturbate to in the past. 

He can't avoid the consequences of his actions forever, though, and he stares at the ceiling to steel himself before facing the literal mess he’s made on his own skin. Indifference would be familiar to him when handling his clean-up, but today he feels nothing short of mortifying disgust when he gets rid of the evidence of this violation. Because that’s what this suddenly feels like, the act reduced to a tissue in the trashcan and the shameful knowledge that Neil will never again be able to look at Andrew’s tattoo without blushing. 

He ends up screwing his eyes shut, trying to shut out the catch in Andrew’s voice last night when he said _tell me again that I survived_ because Neil feels like a monster now.

The worst part is that his leg has already started to jump in place again, and his fingers itch to tie on his shoes. Whatever relief he hoped to find in the memory of Andrew's body is temporary, and it's already wearing off. He knows that he needs to figure out whatever’s got him on edge and deal with it before he falls apart, but he can’t pinpoint the cause yet; the list of potential stressors is long. The list of things that set him off is long: strangers knowing his name in classes (not strangers, he tells himself, just students), listening to Kevin’s five-year plan, regulars at Jim Bean's recognizing him. 

Or maybe: things like the calendar on his wall, still flipped open to November even though finals are about to start. Things like the bet with Thea and Kevin that’s coming due in less than two weeks. Things like watching Andrew’s confidence fracture.

The calendar ends up face-down on the floor because he doesn’t want to look at it. The notes on his desk end up in his backpack to keep them out of sight. He almost goes so far as to empty his now-incriminating trash bin in the dumpster outside, but he opens his laptop instead and tries to force his mind to focus on something productive, like studying, or at least checking his email.

His favorites tab is still full of collars he wants wear and clothes he wants to buy, but he ignores those. Instead of downloading the study guide for numerical linear algebra, he ends up typing _cheap international flights_ into the search bar before deleting the whole thing and pulling up a map of town instead. He ends up printing it out for some reason, and tapes it to the wall, right where his calendar had been. He then proceeds to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what he wants to accomplish by this. 

His fingers twitch. 

It starts with a thumbtack on the intersection of Maple and Kerrington. Eden’s. Another in the middle of Jean’s block. A third by the Green Mill Lounge because he’s still thinking about it, and a fourth on Jim Bean’s. 

For good measure, he puts one on his own apartment and one on Café Bertrand. He’s intentionally leaving out places - the fountain on campus where Kevin fell in last year, the burger place downtown that Thea drags him to once a month, the movie theater that has $4 matinees on weekday mornings - but he dumps the rest of the pins back onto his desk.

They’re all reasons to stay. Anchors, he thinks, of an insubstantial sort. Able to prick his fingers or unravel his mind, but they can’t keep him from crawling out of his skin. It might be the five finals he needs to pass during the upcoming week, or the cusp of _something_ that’s been growing between him and Andrew, but whatever the cause, he realizes his restlessness won’t be so easily quelled. He’s on the verge of something that feels very finite, but he can’t name what it is. 

The map stares back at him. Six pins. Six anchors. There are dozens more out there, if he really cared to think about it, but right now each of these six feels like a suffocating weight. He doesn’t even want to start naming the people who would come looking for him if he disappeared. 

He does it anyway, because Andrew’s steadfast assertion last night - _tell me again that I survived_ \- has shaken something loose inside Neil. Pulling back that apathetic mask created mirror-image voids within them, because even though Neil survived, he sometimes forgets that words can have different meanings for different people. He wonders if he deserves to be called a survivor, if Andrew would contest Neil's title if he knew the whole truth.

So Neil punishes himself by reciting the names of anyone who would look for him. It’s unsurprisingly short: Kevin, Thea, Jean, Jeremy, Roland, Matt, Dan.

Andrew. 

It’s taken years to get to this point, but it was blank for long enough that he doesn't take a single name for granted. It’s still unfathomable to Neil that even one person would try to find him now if he disappeared, let alone eight. 

He adds up all of the pins and names and still falls short of an actual answer, but he doesn’t leave. On days like this, he just has to put his feet on the floor and tell himself that it’s enough, so he does that. He tells himself that the restlessness will pass. 

He doesn’t know if he believes it, but for now, he stays. 

\---

He copes. For a while.

Somehow, he focuses enough on his finals to make it all the way to Thursday in one piece, but as soon as his last final is done on Thursday evening - early American history, an elective Kevin talked Neil into despite his better judgement - the urge to disappear intensifies. It shouldn’t surprise him that staring down five-and-a-half weeks of winter break with nothing but work and an empty campus makes him uneasy, but it does. 

It takes a concerted effort to avoid the bus even though it’s almost freezing outside, because he knows he might just stay on until it reaches the depot. And once he's there, he'll find the next one, and the next, and the next. A string of one-way tickets drawing him further down the rabbit hole he’s been so desperately trying to avoid.

Instead, he walks the two miles back to his apartment and drops his backpack by the front door. Somewhere in the other room, Kevin is clicking a pen obnoxiously in time to a song Neil can’t quite make out the lyrics to. He sneaks past Kevin’s door unnoticed, and it helps to be alone in his own room for a while.

Pacing helps, too, but Kevin bangs on the wall to tell him to shut up after a while, so he ends up laying in bed. 

When his phone buzzes, he almost jumps out of his skin. It takes a moment to decide whether he wants to actually answer it or not, but he does in the end.

“Neil,” Thea says dryly when he holds his phone up to his ear. “I hear you need a break.”

Neil scrunches up his face and flips off Kevin through the wall that separates their rooms, knowing the exact reason for this call. His frustration with Kevin is distracting enough that he barely notices that he picked up his phone on the first ring. He's more focused on trying to keep his voice neutral right now. 

“A little bird tell you that?” 

“Maybe,” Thea says, because they both know which little bird Neil is referring to. When he sighs, she pushes on. “He still has finals tomorrow, Neil. He just needs some quiet for one more night and then you can learn Morse Code or whatever it is you're trying to do right now that has him so pissed off. If you need a break, we can go somewhere.”

It’s a tempting offer, although his mind immediately goes to places much further than she likely intends. Places like London-Heathrow or LaGuardia or Narita International. 

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Neil says, keeping _today_ to himself since it’s well past eight. 

“Great. El Barrio is still open for the next forty minutes if we hurry.”

It's not a bad idea, which is how Neil ends up in the front seat of Thea’s Dodge, tapping his fingers against his knee as she comes out of the small shop with a brown paper bag and two cans of Coke. By the time she starts to divvy up their food into two piles on the dashboard, the bag is sticky with sauce.

Neil takes his container of pozole and one of the plastic cups full of diced chiles as soon as she sets them out. Suddenly he’s starving, and he takes his can of Coke straight out of her hand before it even makes it to the cupholder.

It isn’t until he’s scraping the bottom of the plastic tub clean that he realizes how much more relaxed he is when he isn’t running on black coffee alone. While Thea finishes her food at a much more reasonable pace, Neil watches the first few snowflakes of the season start to fall on the windshield, melting as soon as they make contact with the glass.

“Kevin said you’ve been weird lately,” Thea says between bites, crumpling up a piece of tinfoil and shoving it back in the bag as she chews. “What gives?”

He could deny anything being wrong, like he usually does, but the way she doesn't rush him for a response makes him think twice. It’s almost peaceful as Thea twists the radio dial, keeping the volume low as she searches for a station that isn't playing ads. It's all Christmas music this time of year, and when she stops, the melody is familiar to Neil, even though he can't actually name the song. They listen together, and he feels the tug of a distant memory that's just out of reach, connected to the lull of a piano. Something pleasant and amorphous enough that it might not even belong to him, filled with the warmth of a time and place long forgotten. 

“I don’t know,” Neil says. It feels nice to admit it aloud, even if it's not exactly true. The fact that he's not denying being off lately is a step in the right direction, he thinks. 

She plays with her steering wheel cover for a moment as the song switches to something cheerier, and after a moment’s deliberation, she reaches into the back seat and pulls out her makeup bag.

“You want some?” 

Neil nods, and she pulls out her eyeshadow and tests some on his wrist. 

“You’d better not give me pinkeye,” she warns him before she starts to work, starting with a shade of dark purple.

“These colors don’t look good on me,” Neil says. 

She ignores his commentary for a moment, blending purple along his crease and adding a shimmery highlight along his brow bone before she asks, "And how would you know that?”

He bites back the urge to say _because I’m not blind_ and instead says, “Because you taught me?” 

“Smart boy,” Thea says, patting his cheek before tracing purple along his waterline. “So what's wrong, then?” 

Neil starts juggling his leg, and Thea leans back in her seat when he can’t sit still enough for her to continue working. 

“About the color? You said cool undertones don't work with -”

“Not the colors. You said you didn’t know what's wrong. We’re not just glossing over that, right? I would like to believe that you'd at least tell me if it had something to do with Andrew."

Neil lets out a soft, _“Oh,”_ and the sound is intentionally meager in an attempt to get Thea to drop the subject, but it doesn’t work. He should know better than to try and convince her that he’s suddenly shy, especially given some of the conversations they’ve had in the past. 

After a moment, he adds, “It's not just Andrew, no.” 

The radio starts playing an ad for Christmas layaway at Target, and Thea switches it off. 

“What, then?” 

He shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes anymore. “It’s just a weird time of year.” 

He tells himself it's just a results of a confused defense mechanism, his misguided attempt at avoiding thoughts about whatever pain Andrew keeps to himself. He blames the Christmas music and light snow for making him weirdly nostalgic for something he’s not sure he ever experienced, but the longer he and Thea sit in the dark, watching snowflakes melt on the glass, the more he realizes how true it actually is.

The pieces begin to click together in his brain: last year, Kevin forcibly dragged Neil off campus for winter break. They spent a few weeks crashing with Kevin’s dad before visiting Thea in Texas, and came back to South Carolina just in time for the start of the semester in mid-January. There hadn’t been much time for Neil to think about what he was doing. This year, Kevin hasn’t said anything about the holidays so he doesn’t even know if they’ll see each other once Kevin’s last exam is done tomorrow. Especially since last year, Kevin had them off campus not even ten minutes after Neil finished his abstract algebra final. 

It also probably doesn’t help that Neil is scheduled only one day a week for the next month at Jim Bean’s, and Dan is going with Matt to New York, and everything is on it’s head because he's never had to make plans like this for himself before. And that’s without even touching upon him and Andrew. 

He has a sudden vision of what his life will be when he graduates: evenings spent sitting alone in a shitty apartment with a frozen pizza and no one to witness him scrolling through late-night TV specials until he falls asleep on the couch. 

“You look like you’re going to cry,” Thea says. “Are you going to cry? Do you _want_ to cry?” 

“What?” 

Thea caps the eyeliner she’s been toying with and pulls out mascara. “I said do you plan on crying tonight.”

“No?”

“Because I can make it way more dramatic if you are. Just say the word,” she says, waving mascara at him. “Oh, and we’re going to Eden’s when I’m done with you. Kevin says he still needs at least three more hours of 'quiet study time', whatever that means.”

Neil glances down at his clothes, specifically at his jeans that haven’t been washed at all this week, sporting holes in the knees and new red stains on the thighs where he spilled part of his dinner tonight, a side effect of eating in a small car.

“Jean won’t let me in like this," he says. "There’s a dress code.” 

“Sure he won’t. Because it’s Thursday, and it’s two weeks before Christmas - just a _really_ busy time for Eden’s, you know? Because everyone’s trying to hook up before they leave for the holidays. The place is gonna be so _packed_ \- you're absolutely right. You'll kill their whole reputation showing up in that.” 

Neil huffs out a frustrated sigh. “I get your point.”

“Do you?" Thea asks. "Because my actual point is that Andrew pays a shitload of money for his VIP membership and you’re his new pet. It doesn’t matter if there are ten people there or two hundred; Jean will let you in. So we can sit here and watch the saddest excuse for snow fall for the next four hours or we can go to Eden’s. Just cut the excuses. If you don’t want to go, say so.”

There’s no right answer. If they stay here, Neil will assuredly spend the next four hours trying to chase down a memory that doesn’t exist, searching for a piece of his past that he’s avoided confronting for a long time. And if they go to Eden’s, he’ll be forced to confront the uncertainty that’s been brewing in the back of his mind over the past few days. 

He’s about to open his mouth when he catches a glimpse of his face in the side view mirror. He looks like shit, in an oversized sweater and Andrew’s jacket and an expression that’s slightly dead behind the eyes, but Thea _has_ done an excellent job on his makeup. 

She taps the steering wheel, cocking her head at Neil. Silences don’t scare her, and Neil wonders if that’s why she was his first real friend, after Kevin. 

“It’d be a waste if no one got to see this,” Neil admits, motioning towards his face.

She twists the keys in the ignition, grinning at him. “Now that’s more like the Neil we all know and love.”

\---

Eden’s is dead.

So dead, in fact, that Jean isn’t even at the door. There’s just a brick holding it ajar, and a piece of paper taped to the front that says _ENTER IF YOU DARE._ It looks like Jeremy’s writing, and the box of wristbands is set up to the side. Thea doesn’t bother taking any, which makes sense once Neil sees the near-empty club.

Roland and Jean are sitting behind the bar together, Roland idly scrolling through his phone and ignoring the only other two people in the place, who are making out in a booth in the furthest corner. Neil is about to ask what they’re supposed to do in an empty club for the next four hours when Jean spots them and shouts across the bar - which is unnecessary, as the music is turned down low tonight.

 _“Viens, mon petit._ Have a drink.”

“We’re not here to get drunk,” Thea tells him, but she drags Neil over and plants him in front of the bar anyway. “Neil just needs to relax.” 

Jean makes a sweeping gesture at the rows upon rows of bottles behind the bar. “And? Drinking is very relaxing.”

Jean and Thea stare at him, waiting for a response, although Roland seems more focused on his phone than the conversation, and Neil just shrugs. “Maybe later.” 

As it turns out, _later_ is a mistake, because any amount of time spent listening to three Doms talking about ropes is time wasted in Neil’s opinion. _Ropes,_ as if that’s a topic anyone could talk about for more than ten minutes. But Jean and Roland and Thea are doing a great job of proving Neil wrong so far.

He only lasts fifteen minutes before blurting out, “Fine. I’ll take a drink.” 

Thea glances at him over her La Croix, her phone in Jean’s hand while he shows her an article about hemp vs jute.

“Are you sure?” She asks. 

Neil doesn’t think he’s going to survive the next three hours any other way, so he nods. By that point, Roland has already produced a glass full of ice and is lining up bottles in front of them to choose from when Jean steps in.

“Wait, wait, wait - we should make this fun if he's drinking. A game. Loser pays.” 

_Fun_ doesn’t sound promising to Neil, but Thea brightens immediately. “I’m in.”

This sounds too much like a bet, and Neil’s had enough experience with losing bets over the past few years that he’s not sure he wants to participate until two things happen at the same time.

One: Jean faces Roland and holds out his hand with a declaration, “Arm wrestling. Best of three.” 

And two: the door opens, a gust of cold air drawing Neil’s attention. It's Andrew, of course, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

Suddenly, Neil is very on board with this plan. He can do arm wrestling, especially if that means there’s a chance of himself facing off with Andrew. His palms are already clammy; he wants Andrew to sit next to him and call him an idiot, only to lose to Neil's superior strength - because Neil has no doubts that he can win against Andrew. But on the off chance that he can’t win on his strength alone, he wonders if Andrew would let him win on purpose. 

“Best of three,” Roland says to Jean, while Andrew shrugs out of his jacket and disappears into the locker area.

It turns out Roland loses quickly. Jean beats him twice in a row, and by the time he gets settled across from Neil, Andrew has reappeared behind the bar, leaning against the wall at a distance. 

“Best of three?” Neil asks, looking up at Jean beseechingly. He wants a chance to beat Andrew, which means he has to first win against Jean. 

Jean, who easily weighs twice as much as Neil and is a good foot taller than him. He looks like he has a home gym in his basement. (He does, actually; Jeremy showed it to Neil before the bonfire).

Neil isn’t above playing a little dirty to get his way, though. It’s how he survived this long.

“Best of three,” Jean repeats, offering Neil his right hand. 

Neil can easily play the part of sweet, naïve sub, missing so many pieces of a normal childhood that no one would question him misunderstanding the game. Neil gives Jean a sheepish grin and offers up his left hand on purpose.

“Wrong one,” Thea says, glancing briefly at Andrew before turning her attention back to Neil. If she’s onto him, Neil prays that she keeps it to herself for thirty more seconds so he can win before his cover is blown.

He switches, offers Jean his right hand, and Jean takes it gently enough for Neil to wonder if his plan is actually genius. 

“Don’t go easy on me," Neil says to Jean, but he’s looking straight at Andrew. "I can take it.”

Jean mutters _merde,_ as though he just noticed Andrew a few feet behind him. “I don’t want to hurt you, Neil.”

“I said I can take it,” Neil repeats, looking at Jean this time. “On three.”

Neil feels the ice behind his own expression slip through as he watches Andrew out of the corner of his eye. He wants to prove what his submission means, to show Andrew just how much power Neil would have over him as his sub. He doesn’t know if it’s like this for other subs - the heady, drunk feeling he gets from imagining Andrew being unable to control himself, all because of Neil. He wants to provoke Andrew’s temper and push him to his breaking point.

It feels like they’re about to stumble upon a defining moment that will either make or break them. Andrew likes subs that follow the rules, and that’s never been Neil’s strong suit. He wants to make the rules. Sure, he wants Andrew to own him and control him and dominate him, but he’s starting to realize that submission doesn’t always have to be bowed heads and _yes Sir_ and agreeing with everything a Dom asks for.

He doesn’t want this to be easy for either of them.

Neil keeps his fingers wrapped loosely around Jean’s to feed the illusion of weakness, waiting until the last second of the countdown to tighten his grip and slam Jean’s hand against the table.

“Hell, Neil, don’t break his arm,” Thea says. Roland only laughs while Jean shakes out his wrist.

 _“Bâtard,”_ Jean mumbles, setting up for round two. This time, Neil knows he won’t have surprise on his side, but he only has to win once more to secure his victory. 

Andrew watches them, his expression placid and bored, but the fact that he’s not ignoring them completely means that he’s at least slightly interested.

When Jean looks at Neil this time, there's an edge to his gaze that lets Neil know they're on the same page, that Jean feels the tension in Neil’s hand this time. Jean tightens his grip and says, "Right, no holding back then."

And Neil knows they mean business.

It turns out Jean was going very, _very_ easy on him, because he wins the second round faster than Neil won the first, followed by a third round that secures Jean’s victory within a matter of seconds.

“Better luck next time,” Roland says, pouring something out for Neil and pushing it across the bar. 

As usual, Andrew’s timing is all his own, and he steps in and takes the glass out of Neil’s hand before he has a chance to even taste it. 

When Neil starts to protest, Andrew takes a long sip and says, “You owe me a drink, remember?” 

It takes Neil a moment to process those words, especially when Andrew chases a stray drop down the side of the glass by pressing his tongue flat against it. Belatedly, he _maybe_ recollects stealing Andrew’s drink a few weeks ago, but he isn't about to admit to that.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Neil says, and Thea all but shoves him out of his seat.

“Go,” she says. “None of us need to see this.”

He and Andrew end up sitting on steps to the VIP area, staring out at the empty main floor. There's enough distance between them and the bar that Thea and Jean and Roland can't overhear them, at least.

Neil sits first, letting Andrew decide how close they’ll be tonight.

As luck would have it, Andrew sits right next to him, leaving just inches between them as he traces a finger around the rim of his stolen glass while he waits for Neil to break their silence.

“Why are you here?”

“You tell me,” Andrew says, downing the rest of Neil’s drink in a matter of seconds. 

Now that he thinks about it, there is a very high likelihood that Thea texted Andrew to meet them here, considering the circumstances.

“You were waiting for a reason to come,” Neil guesses. And then, as if forced by the hand of his own insecurities, he quietly adds: “I haven’t heard from you all week.” 

Andrew sets the glass on the steps behind them and leans back. “If you wanted to hear from me, you could have called. You have a phone, Neil.” 

“What if I wanted more than a call?”

Andrew snorts. “Because you hate your phone?” 

Neil doesn’t hesitate this time. “Because I want a contract.” 

Andrew cocks his head to the side, but other than that shows no reaction. “Do _not_ tell me you’ve been watching 50 Shades of Grey.” When Neil levels an unimpressed gaze at him, Andrew adds, “Brats don’t deserve contracts.”

It’s not a real response. Neil wonders if that means they’re actually having this conversation right now, if he’s negotiating his first real Dom/sub dynamic.

“It could be a starting point,” Neil says, desperate to believe that Andrew is at least entertaining the idea of becoming his Dom right now. “I could list what I _think_ I like, so you can remember what I want to try when it comes to scenes. And you could add things too, I guess. So we’re both on the same page.”

“You think we aren’t on the same page now? You think that I can’t remember that you prefer bondage to masochism, that you melt when Jean calls you _pretty boy,_ that you prefer plain water to any other drink here, that you can’t stop wearing baby blue? You think I need a contract to tell me that your birthday is in March and that you haven’t always been Neil Josten? That you don’t trust easily and that you have a complex when it comes to older men?”

Neil ignores half of what was just said because he’s not used to being known, and he can’t process that right now. Especially after Matt and Dan pointed out how little he knows about Andrew - he can focus on fixing that later. Instead, he clings to the one half-inaccuracy that Andrew listed because he's _difficult_.

“You’re wrong,” Neil says. “My birthday isn’t in March. It’s January.” 

Andrew’s jaw clicks as he shuts his mouth, then opens it. “You’re either lying to me or the US government, because I’ve seen you show Roland your ID before.”

Neil digs around in his back pocket and throws his wallet into Andrew’s lap. “See for yourself.”

At first, Andrew doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he opens the wallet and pulls out a stack of licenses. Neil knows them by heart, and watches as Andrew flips through them. South Carolina. California. New Mexico. Iowa. New Hampshire. Louisiana. 

“I’m not technically supposed to have these,” Neil says when Andrew gets to the last one, which isn’t even a license. 

It’s a state ID from Maryland. He had been twelve at the time, and now it’s the only remaining picture he has of himself as a child. His mother had used a school photo to have it made before they left Baltimore, and a cross version of Nathaniel in a blue uniform shirt stares up at them. His tie is a little crooked, as if no one cared enough to tell him to fix it before the photo was taken. 

He barely remembers being that small. His shoulders were fragile, hunched things that failed to protect him when his father got upset, and seeing his younger face now only makes him angry at his own useless vulnerability. Then again, no child should have endured the things Neil endured. He shouldn't have needed protecting. 

But he wants Andrew to see him like this, before his hair had been dyed, before his name had been changed so many times that he lost track, before he left Baltimore for the first time. He wants Andrew to know that he was a kid with a troubled past and no hope for a better future. 

He had been a kid once.

The thought is almost painful as he taps the familiar face in the picture.

“January,” Neil repeats. “This birthday’s the real one.” 

The child in that photo might as well be buried in Baltimore on his family’s estate, a ghost left behind to haunt the grave of a father he’d rather forget. 

Andrew squints at the ID. “And your name was Stefan?” 

“For a few months,” Neil says. “It was Nathaniel for a long time first. Not that I have proof of that anymore. But the birthday on this one is real, I guess.” 

Andrew puts the stack of IDs back in Neil’s wallet and closes it. 

“What name would you give to me?” He asks. “Do I get Neil, or do I get Alex? Maybe Stefan?” He pauses, looking Neil in the eye. “Nathaniel?” 

Neil takes his wallet back and stuffs it into his pocket, trying to hide the slight tremor in his hands at hearing his old name out loud. “I didn’t show you this so you could mock me.”

“And I didn’t come here so you could mock _me_ ,” Andrew says. “With contracts, of all things.”

“Then tell me what's wrong with asking for a contract. I want to be your sub. How else am I supposed to make it happen?” 

Andrew breathes out a sigh, running a hand through his hair and glaring across the bar at Jean and Roland and Thea, as though they’re personally responsible for Neil’s BDSM mis-education. 

“Contracts are a crutch. You think a piece of paper will stop abusers, or guarantee that your Dom is going to stop when you say stop? Like any tool, it can be useful in the right hands, and dangerous in the wrong ones. It's not a replacement for actual conversations, and a contract won't protect either of us from liability.”

He pauses, watching Neil digest that information for a minute. 

“So we talk?" Neil asks.

“You have a voice,” Andrew says, resting his chin in his hand. “Use it.”

It's clearly an invitation, but Neil falters. Andrew hasn’t explicitly said he wants to be his Dom yet, and a part of him just wants a contract so he has a piece of paper that says _I belong to Andrew Minyard_.

Plus, he's been imagining this moment since Halloween. In his mind, he assumed he would say _I'm ready to be your sub,_ and Andrew would say something like _I'll be your Dom, baby boy,_ and they'd shake hands and sign on the dotted line or do whatever it is that subs and Doms do at that point. 

There's some loose improvisation in there, but the point remains. Neil wanted an easy agreement, and he never imagined the moments that would lead up to that: the discomfort, the uncertainty as he navigates this new terrain, the negotiation that needs to take place. His heart races at the mere possibility that their nebulous _something_ could become a tangible reality very soon. He knows Andrew is probably taking this slowly for Neil's own good (due to his purported _inexperience),_ but patience has never been Neil's strong suit.

He tries to focus on the conversation at hand, his voice tight. “As in … talk _now?”_

Andrew makes a vague hand motion that Neil interprets as _continue,_ so he does. 

“Impact play,” Neil blurts out, as though Andrew will change his mind if he doesn’t start talking immediately. “Spanking. I liked it a lot. And I want to try whips someday. Toys. Choking, maybe, but I'm not sure about that one yet. Edging. Cock worship. Sensory deprivation. Fisting. Orgasm denial. Overstimulation. Watersports.” 

He glosses over that last one quickly, but Andrew arches an eyebrow so Neil knows that he definitely heard it.

“Humiliation. Objectification. Cock warming. Collars. Bondage, but you already knew that one, I guess. I want to try to please my Dom sometimes. Other times -”

“I never said I was your Dom,” Andrew interjects, but it sounds like a challenge. Neil is emboldened by the fact that he just said the words _cock warming_ and _fisting_ in front of Andrew without so much as blushing.

“Right, I forgot,” Neil says, a slow and intentional grin spreading across his face. His mouth is going to get him killed someday, but that's kind of the point right now. “What would you rather I call you, then, princess?”

Andrew’s eyes narrow, but the telltale blush across his cheeks, obscuring the barely-there freckles, tells a different story than the muttered _fucking hell_ under his breath. 

“Princess suits you, actually,” Neil insists, and he realizes just how much Andrew is affected by the nickname when he starts to list the evidence. “You don't like getting your shoes scuffed… you never learned how to share … you have expensive tastes … you throw tantrums when you don't get your way. Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe you've been waiting all these years for a sub to spoil _you_.” He pauses, drags a finger across the knuckles on Andrew’s hand before Andrew bats him away. Neil _tsks_ at him. “So impatient.” 

“You’re too mouthy,” Andrew tells him.

“I’m not trapping you here,” Neil says, motioning towards the empty club. “You could easily leave if you wanted to. But you won’t, because we're really doing this, aren't we?”

“Did I forget to tell you that your cockiness isn't attractive on you?” Andrew asks, and he kicks out his legs until his boots - still wet from the meager amount of snow outside - are resting on top of Neil's ankles. 

“You still haven’t told me why you came here tonight,” Neil says, once again finding himself drawn to Andrew’s hands.

They seem like a safe space, a clearly defined playground for him to explore while Andrew thinks. Neil reaches over and lightly traces amorphous shapes across Andrew's palms, scratching lightly until Andrew makes a fist to shut him out again. 

“We need to talk about what I want, too."

That stops the conversation. The word _want_ hits Neil in an unprotected place. Andrew has never spoken in terms like this before, and Neil doesn’t know if he should blame the meager amount of alcohol in Andrew’s system or the weeks of wearing down his defenses, but the moment is almost crystalline in its fragility. 

When Andrew doesn’t continue, Neil prompts him.

"So what do you want?” 

He drops the pretense, the nicknames and roles and safe words. He half-expects Andrew to back out with a stupid response like _peace and quiet_ or _anyone but you,_ but he doesn’t. 

He also doesn't answer the question, but he does stand up and drops his keys into Neil’s lap, so it feels like they're still making progress.

“You drive,” Andrew says, already heading towards the door. 

Neil barely catches up to him outside, after jingling the keys loudly at Thea as he passed her at the bar so she knows to leave without him. He clicks the lock button to locate the dormant Mas, but it’s not difficult. For once, he recognizes almost every car in the lot.

Andrew gets in the passenger side while Neil situates himself behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors and lights until he’s satisfied that he probably won't crash. He would ask Andrew if he is seriously allowed to drive the Mas right now, but judging by the look on Andrew's face, he's very serious.

“I’m going to assume at least one of those licenses is legitimate," Andrew says. 

“More or less." Neil shifts out of park, one hand on the steering wheel. “Where to?”

“Corner of Reicke and 31st.”

It's barely a five minute drive, but when they arrive, Andrew has his forehead pressed against the glass of the passenger side window. He only sits fully upright when Neil pulls into the empty parking lot.

It’s a ballroom. One of those fancy ones with fake plaster columns out front and strings of fairy lights tacked onto every available surface and plastic evergreen trees in plastic pots along the entryway. _La Margritte’s,_ it says in scrawling letters above the door, but it looks long abandoned. None of the lights are on, and it sounds like the asphalt is crumbling under the tires as Neil pulls to a stop in front of the entrance. 

“You fit,” Andrew says after a long silence. Neil doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he waits until Andrew tries again. “You fit in all the places I don’t.”

Neil wants to object, but this time Andrew pulls something out of the passenger side door. He holds the now-familiar blue collar in his hands as Neil stares, wide-eyed and silent. 

“You said it yourself," Andrew says. "You survived.” 

“And I’ve literally killed a man with my bare hands,” Neil offers as counter-evidence. The fact that Andrew isn’t surprised by this addition should probably alarm Neil. "I did things to survive that I'm not proud of, but I don't regret any of it. Because I'm still here."

“It never felt right,” Andrew says, flipping the collar over to run his fingers across the lining. “It felt forced when I wore it, even though I desperately wanted it.” He tosses the collar up onto the dashboard derisively. 

Headlights flash across them as someone turns at the nearest intersection, and as they fade, Andrew inspects Neil carefully. His words don't always make sense to Neil, but Neil is almost used to the way Andrew drops threads of his past into their conversations when he speaks, weaving them carefully into the present. 

“This city is filled with graveyards, Neil,” Andrew says. His eyes flit to La Margritte’s awning, and Neil tries to pick through the breadcrumbs Andrew is leaving behind to find meaning in his words. “What will yours look like?”

Neil takes a moment to consider the question literally before he realizes that Andrew is waiting for an answer that isn’t a shallow grave in the stockyards or a dumpster deep in the industrial quarter (both of which Neil has considered the merits of already for such grim prospects; he's always going to be the son of the Butcher of Baltimore). He opens his mouth, shuts it with a frown, unsure how he’s meant to answer the non-literal version of that question.

“Everyone leaves this shithole. So take your pick.” Andrew motions towards the banquet hall. “This is Nicky.” A hand towards the eastern part of town. “The Green Mill is Renee.” Another one towards the city center. “Aaron's out there, too.”

He ends with a shaky hand pointed at the collar on the dash. 

“Another grave.”

Andrew's grave, Neil's grave. It doesn't matter; Neil won't figure out what it means. After almost an entire week of exams, he’s tired of thinking.

So he picks up the collar, and it feels just as soft as he remembers. Slowly, he takes it in both hands, and tells himself that it's just a collar - Andrew’s collar. The one Neil has dreamt of wearing ever since he saw it after Jean’s bonfire. But it feels wrong when he thinks of putting it on tonight. Too weighty, too unbalanced. He lets instinct take over, and leans across the center console to where Andrew is resting his forehead against the glass again.

He pulls Andrew out of his apathetic squalor by yanking the scruff of his shirt until they're almost nose-to-nose. 

It isn’t graceful, but Andrew doesn’t protest. He's beyond caring, or he cares too much. Either way, he lets Neil manhandle him forward, his eyes trailing each of Neil’s predictable movements. 

Neil waits for a _no_ as he holds the collar up to Andrew’s neck. He pauses before sliding both of his hands around to buckle it in the back, letting his thumbs come up to rest on either side of Andrew’s chin when he’s done. 

This collar was made for Andrew. Not Neil. It fits him like a glove, and despite all the graveyard talk, the tension starts to leave Andrew’s body as soon as it’s on. 

“You’re terrified of me,” Neil says calmly, his thumbs still resting on Andrew’s chin. “You want to hurt me because you’re afraid that if you don’t, I’ll ruin you.” He leans forwards to press a chaste kiss against Andrew’s cheek, right on the spot below his ear, and whispers, “It’s too late for that now, though, isn’t it princess? There's a reason you haven't scened with another sub in weeks.” 

He feels more than sees Andrew’s responding shiver. He doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore, which isn't exactly new; he’s always been a step behind in this game they play. But tonight, he feels like they’re both playing catch-up. 

“I already own you,” Neil says quietly as he leans back, letting go of Andrew's face. 

The juxtaposition of holding on and being held makes Neil dizzy.

He still tells himself that this could mean nothing. So many of their lines are blurring right now, and Neil is half-convinced that he's going to wake up any moment now and realize he's been dreaming.

He waits for Andrew to make the next move.

Unfortunately, Andrew seems content to watch the clock switch from 10:42 to 10:43, his defenses up in the form of apathetic boredom. His only tell is the way he white-knuckles the door handle to his side. 

Neil tug the ring on Andrew's collar gently, catching his attention. Andrew grabs Neil's wrist as if on instinct, his fingers firm enough to cage him in, and Neil feels a momentary thrill when Andrew looks down at the places their hands are joined.

"I'm not scared of you," Andrew says, but there's enough emphasis on the _you_ that Neil doesn't know what to ask next. 

He thinks of the first time he saw Andrew months ago: before the bet, before Halloween, before he knew about Andrew's reputation as a Dom. Back when Andrew was a face without a name.

He wonders when Andrew first noticed him. 

Andrew twists Neil's wrist until Neil lets go of the ring on the collar. He brings Neil's palm up to his lips, where he presses a kiss against the shallowest space on his palm, right above his wrist, where there aren't any scars. 

He only lets go of Neil's hand in order to wrap his fingers around the back of Neil's neck, to pull him close until they're inches apart. Andrew stares at Neil's lips, as though it's too hard to look him in the eye right now, but Neil can't stop staring at the way flickers of light catch in Andrew's eyes, reflecting back the glow of an occasional passing car. It's mesmerizing. 

"Neil," Andrew says softly, and Neil tracks the way his mouth forms syllables as he speaks. _"Breathe."_

He nods eagerly, bumping his nose against Andrew's, which earns him an annoyed huff in response, but this time Andrew doesn't pull away. His hand is still wrapped around the back of Neil's neck, and he squeezes once.

"I still want this," Neil says into the darkness between them, the territory they've temporarily claimed as their own, and it almost hurts. He's stumbled upon an entire universe that he never thought he'd be privy to, the kind where happiness isn't hoarded or rationed or hunted into extinction. The corner of Andrew's mouth quirks down, his disagreement fleeting as he glances up into Neil's eyes, as though trying to tell him something else entirely. 

For a split second, Neil wonders if this is the reason that his mother took him away from Baltimore. If she knew there were better things out there for him, other than destruction and pain and torture and blood. If she knew that someday Nathaniel could break the cycle she'd borne him into. 

If, before she died, she ever knew what it was like to be in love. And if, by some intuition of her own, she suspected he'd be capable of feeling that someday, too. 

Andrew closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against Neil's in a practiced, slow motion. Neil's first thought is that he doesn't know if he's doing it right, because he's only kissed a handful of people before. He doesn't think about that long, though, because he never expected to feel so disoriented by such a simple action.

A groan gets caught in the back of his throat. Andrew bites Neil's lower lip and tightens the grip on the back of his neck, and Neil can't help but trace his tongue alone the row of Andrew's teeth before they both breathe, and then it's suddenly not just lips, but teeth and tongue and breathe and the stuttering pulse of Neil's unprepared heart.

Andrew bites him gently again, this time catching Neil's tongue between his teeth before sucking on it, tracing a line along its underside with his own until goosebumps line Neil's arms and he shivers. He wants to reach out and touch more of Andrew, but he doesn't yet; the memory of Andrew's tattoo underneath his fingers is still overwhelming to him, and being kissed by Andrew is almost too much. Touching Andrew back would push him over an edge he isn't ready to explore yet. 

Another unintelligible sound gets caught in Neil's throat as he realizes that yes, he is _very_ affected by Andrew's mouth alone. He shouldn't have worn jeans today, or maybe he just shouldn't be allowed to kiss Andrew like _this,_ like it's more important than breathing, because his dick is painfully rubbing against the seam along his inner thigh. 

Andrew is the first to pull back and he mutters, "Remember, Neil, _breathe_ ," before pulling Neil's forehead to rest against his shoulder, a protective hand still curled around the back of his neck to hold Neil in place.

Neil pants against him, unable to do anything else. 

Eventually, he shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Andrew lets go of him, as if they've both just realized that making out in the front seat of a Maserati is not ideal. It hasn't hindered his arousal at all, though, and he curls a hand around the steering wheel to distract himself from the way he feels right now. It would be one thing if Andrew was offering to finish him off right here and now, but he gets the idea that Andrew isn't a sex-in-the-Maserati kind of guy. 

He tries to focus on the way the odometer isn't quite aligned, the ticker stuck halfway between 66305 and 66306. He breathes through his nose and glances sideways at Andrew, who's almost smirking next to him. 

"I just need a minute," Neil says, knowing full well that Andrew is just as turned on as he is, thanks to the evidence clearly outlined in Andrew's almost skin-tight black jeans, and Neil wonders if that wardrobe choice is on purpose. Andrew shamelessly adjusts himself, though, and waits for Neil to calm down.

It takes a few minutes, but Neil eventually turns the key in the ignition. He isn't sure where this leaves them, but it seems promising. Andrew hasn't taken the collar off yet, and he hasn't killed Neil yet for calling him _princess,_ and he hasn't abandoned Neil behind the abandoned restaurant in the middle of the night yet. 

Neil counts all of that as a massive win. 

He revs the engine, one hand on the gearshift, ready to go. 

"What next?" Neil asks. The purr of the engine is a siren song to him, the promise of an escape he's been thinking about all week. He wonders how far he could drive without stopping to get gas, how many states he could put between himself and all of his problems within the next twelve hours. But when he looks at Andrew in the seat next to him, he wants to do better. 

He silently counts to ten, shuts his eyes, feels the vibrations of the engine through the brake pedal under his foot. 

He's in control. He doesn't need to drive until the road ends to calm that persistent, clawing urge to escape. 

"You have 520 horsepower at your fingertips," Andrew says. "I'm sure you can figure out what to do next all on your own."

And he's right. Neil knows exactly what to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated but whenever I hear the line _and mother, I am sorry I never pick up, because I'm afraid to disappoint_ I die inside in the best possible way, it's An Experience. And I'm now realizing it doesn't look pretty typed out but trust me it's worth listening to if you like brockhampton. 
> 
> Also, how am I writing about the winter holidays/New Years/etc instead of HALLOWEEN during spooky month???? I guess that’s what I get for starting a fic back in MARCH set during HALLOWEEN, like wtf was I doing? I’ve just got Halloween on the brain year round I guess, whoops.
> 
> The next few chapters are the actual winter specials I suppose, including: Eden's winter party, NEIL'S BET????, and of course New Year's Eve because I can't possibly pass that up. chapter 13 will be up a few days before halloween if all goes well :) 
> 
> Also: all previous requests are currently being incorporated. Which means ... yes, kink is coming.


	13. Hate This and I'll Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! SORRY THIS IS A COUPLE DAYS LATE!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credit goes to muse (listen to the actual lyrics of 'hate this and i'll love you' if y'all want a little insight as to what's going on in andrew's mind during all of these recent neil chapters) (also sorry this one's so long!!)
> 
> IF YOU'VE BEEN AVOIDING BDSM SCENES, DON'T SKIP THE WARNINGS FROM NOW ON!!!! I try to be as thorough as possible so y'all can avoid kinks/subjects as needed - and since things are getting more kink-involved, i figured i'd put an extra heads-up now so no one is surprised! :)
> 
> WARNINGS/TAGS: mild continuation of Neil's mindset from the end of last chapter. locking collars. Neil sends a nsfw picture. Neil’s a furry (what i actually mean is: there's a tail plug at one point and the cat ears come back out) (rest assured that andrew does not care one bit that neil's dressed as a cat, he still wants him and i'll let you be the judge of what that means) (ok i'll be serious now i promise)
> 
> MORE WARNINGS: Neil answers Andrew's call while touching himself + Andrew is aware of this. Neil calls himself Andrew's sl*t (disclaimer: Andrew isn't going to suddenly use words like sl*t or wh*re to humiliate or degrade Neil unless they've spoken about it in advance and negotiated it beforehand AS A REPUTABLE DOM SHOULD). Andrew takes Neil into a VIP room at Eden's to talk limits. First scene together! Featuring: submissive posture, a candy necklace, Andrew's oral fixation (don't get me wrong I LOVE Neil with an oral fixation but in the books, we are gifted with Andrew-'doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you'-Minyard. so.) (don't worry there's not like a limit to oral fixations, more than enough to go around for everyone). Neil's oral fixation (I said there's enough to go around right??), Neil being a brat.
> 
> As always let me know if there's something i've missed in these tags!!

All it takes is a minor breakdown for Neil to finally sit down and talk to Kevin about his plans for the semester break. 

And, funnily enough, it turns out both Kevin and Thea have plans that do not include Neil. Thea’s family is vacationing in California and her invitation extends only to Kevin this year, likely due to the fact that she’s graduating in six months and her parents keep asking when she’s going to _get serious about that boy._ Neil supposes this is Thea’s way of getting serious, and he can’t exactly resent her for taking the opportunity to drag Kevin around Disneyland in a pair of sunglasses and green-and-red plaid flannel Mickey Mouse ears. He does resent both of them (slightly) for not telling him sooner, but Thea appeases him by promising to bring back plenty of incriminating pictures of Kevin. 

Kevin, however, remains on Neil’s shit list. Because according to Kevin, Neil should’ve known this weeks ago after a travel itinerary appeared on their fridge with ‘KEVIN AND THEA’S CHRISTMAS PLANS’ written across the top. Apparently, Neil could’ve 'asked them' for an 'explanation' at any time.

The real kicker is that Kevin insists _w_ _e_ _both could’ve communicated this better._

False.

Neil does not need to communicate better. It's not like Kevin needs to check that - _oh right,_ Neil doesn't have any family to fly him to Disneyland for a week. 

So no, Neil is not about to admit any fault in this, and he spends most of Friday and Saturday pretending that Kevin does not exist. He does everything he can think of to soothe the static feeling that skitters just underneath the surface of his skin, but he can't stop thinking about the week he’s about to spend alone. 

_Alone,_ because Matt and Dan are already in New York with the extended Boyd family, and Jean and Jeremy have been curiously silent over the past week, and Thea and Kevin are going to California. 

He purposefully excludes Andrew from that list. He isn’t about to send a (desperate) last-minute text asking if Andrew already has plans, because the universe is being brutally clear right now: _everyone_ has plans. Everyone but Neil. 

By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, Neil is considering the pros and cons of running in the icy rain. He needs to burn off the uneasy feeling that’s settled in his gut and doesn’t know how else to do it. His bedroom isn’t safe anymore - that stupid map is still hanging on his wall with all six pins in place, mocking him. He hasn’t stopped counting the names of the people who’d look for him if he went missing, and he’s temporarily removed Kevin from that list in a fit of petty annoyance. 

It probably doesn’t help that Kevin has stocked their fridge with frozen meals, and Thea has left a miniature white pine tree on the floor in front of their window for seasonal cheer. It blinks alternating blue-and-white lights at him. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s mesmerizing, but Kevin definitely caught him staring at it earlier. 

Now, Neil refuses to acknowledge either Kevin or the obnoxious tree because they’re both disgustingly annoying to look at.

“It’s only a week,” Kevin says as he drags an over-packed suitcase across the kitchen floor. “We’ll be back on the 26th, so we can all celebrate then, alright? And I’ll have my phone on in case you need anything while I’m gone. I told Dan and Matt the same thing - they’ll probably call you soon. Or you could call them, you know. It wouldn’t kill you to try to be a bit more social with your friends, would it?” 

It takes a lot for Neil not to say _well, it could_ just to be contrary, but he keeps that commentary to himself. It’s easier to just get this over with. He doesn’t know how to do goodbyes, after all. Even though this isn’t a real goodbye - not a long one, at least - it serves as yet another reminder that he's in charge of his own life now. He's the one responsible for whatever messes he gets himself into; not his father, not his mother, not the FBI or Kevin or Stuart. 

Not that this is a mess - it's just a week alone. Other people do it all the time.

“Don't worry about it," Neil says. "I'll be fine.” 

He can practically hear the responding eye roll from Kevin. But he’s telling the truth about being fine, and he doesn’t appreciate being babied like this. He can survive a week on his own, after all. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before - not that he’s about to bring up the months he spent squatting alone in abandoned houses after his mothers’ death. 

Honestly, he just wants the band-aid to be pulled off. Kevin needs to leave, and Neil hopes the solitude will help to clear his mind. 

Kevin props the front door open with his elbow, balancing his suitcase behind him in the hallway. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Not my problem,” Neil says, but what he wants to say is: _then why are you still leaving?_ For good measure, just to spite that particular thought, Neil bitterly adds: “Don’t you have a flight to catch or something?”

Kevin shoves his suitcase with his foot, watching it roll a couple feet on its own before it hits the opposite wall. Their front door starts to close between them.

“If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow I’m calling Andrew!” Kevin shouts right as it shuts.

Neil flips off the door and waits until he can’t hear the muffled sounds of Kevin’s footsteps anymore. With nothing but the empty silence of their apartment to keep him company, he lets out a long sigh. 

He’s really alone, for the first time in a long time. He isn’t exactly unprepared for the feeling of stillness that starts to descend on the apartment, but he’s nonetheless unsettled when it comes. Time stretches, elastic and bendable, as he stares at his silhouette reflected in the window. He doesn’t remember coming to stand in front of it. He doesn’t remember when the sun started to set. 

The parking lot below is half-empty. Their apartment complex houses students, most of whom have already returned to their families for the holidays, which only reinforces the eerie loneliness Neil feels watching the sky turn a dusky grey. His reflection judges him. White-and-blue light flashes across his cheekbones every few seconds as the tree beside him blinks on and off, on and off, until he unplugs the damn thing. 

When he turns back to the window, the lonely wash of fading December light reflected back at him is worse, somehow. If the clock on the wall is to be trusted, he’s been standing at the goddamn window for over half an hour, watching the unchanging landscape of asphalt beneath him.

Still, he tells himself that he can survive this week alone. Then he says it aloud into the empty apartment, as if that’ll make it true. 

“It’s only one week.” 

Ten minutes later, he turns the tree back on.

And ten minutes after that, he gives in and finally checks his phone. Surprisingly, there’s a message from Andrew, timestamped almost exactly five minutes after Kevin left.

All it says is: _check downstairs._

Neil wouldn’t exactly say that he runs, but only a few seconds elapse before he’s standing in the entryway of his building, panting as he stares out at the parking lot. 

The same empty parking lot that he’d been staring at from upstairs. There’s no Maserati, even though he knew there wouldn’t be. His disappointment, however illogical, makes it harder to breathe. He doesn’t know why he hoped Andrew would be here, but he did. 

He’s still clutching his phone in one hand. Before he does anything else, he texts Andrew back, uncertain of what either of them are capable of right now. 

_I'm downstairs, what am I supposed to check for?_

There’s a few second delay while Andrew responds, and then a message appears on Neil’s screen: _your mail._

This time, Neil allows his excitement to get the best of him. He doesn’t know what Andrew could mean by that, but he assumes it has something to do with Christmas and collars and the whole discussion they had a mere two days ago that ended with Andrew’s tongue in Neil’s mouth. 

Inside his mailbox is a flat, rectangular box wrapped in black paper with Neil’s name written on it. No address, no stamps. So Andrew either picked the mailbox lock to leave this, or Kevin helped him out. 

Of course Kevin-fucking-Day would have a hand in this. 

Neil almost tears off the paper before realizing it could be a test, to see if Neil has any submissive manners. Even though Neil’s given him no reason to think he has any.

Not to mention he’s still not technically Andrew’s sub. But if he wants to be Andrew’s sub, if he is trying to be good (and Neil hasn’t decided yet if that’s something he wants to be or not), Andrew might expect him to ask permission first. At the very least, Neil is willing to see if there’s a game to play here. 

He calls Andrew, and it only rings twice before Neil hears what sounds like a superhighway muffling Andrew’s answering, _“What?”_

“There’s a box,” Neil says, even though Andrew presumably already knows that. 

“Did no one teach you how to use a phone?” Andrew drawls, but his voice is barely audible over the background noise on the other end of the line. Trains, maybe, or an airport. Cars alone aren’t that loud.

Neil wants to point out that Andrew was the one who answered with a gruff _what?,_ but he's being good right now.

“Hello, _Andrew,_ ” he says, trying to keep his tone as polite as possible lest he lose the privilege of whatever’s inside the box. “I got your package.” 

“Did you?” Andrew asks, and Neil swears there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. He’d much rather have this conversation take place in person, but he’ll settle for this: standing alone in the front alcove of his building, phone cradled against one ear as he takes the rest of the mail out and throws it directly in the trash, including a coupon for Frank’s Grill, a Dominion Electric bill, and something addressed ‘URGENT FIRST CLASS’ for Kevin. 

Neil doesn’t take Andrew’s bait, though. He shakes the box, and the clanking sound draws his interest. “I haven’t opened it yet. Figured I should ask first, since I’m trying to be good.” 

Despite being 100% genuine, it comes out sounding like a taunt. Belatedly, he realizes that he's not trying to be good at all right now. The only reason he's calling Andrew is because he wants to hear his voice. Or not, actually. He doesn't want to hear Andrew's voice specifically - just somebody's voice. That's what he tells himself, at least. And it's one more disappointing weakness that he's developed over the past few years. The soundtrack of his life as Neil Josten is a mixture of voices: Jeremy and Kevin and Dan and Thea and Jean and, however unlikely, Andrew. He's gotten used to the constant mindless chatter. He's come to depend on them too much, if this is what happens when he's left alone. 

He's pulled out of his thoughts by what he swears is a huff of amusement from Andrew, even if it’s mostly obscured by the echo of a mechanical voice announcing _INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURES, CONCOURSE B, SECOND FLOOR. INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS AND CUSTOMS, CONCOURSE B, FIRST FLOOR._

“You wouldn’t know how to be good if I spelled it out for you,” Andrew says. 

“Would you? Ask me to be good?” Neil asks while he idly picks at a piece of tape on the box. He tries to ignore the images his mind is conjuring of Andrew in an airport, shoving past TSA agents and people in suits and harried parents in ugly holiday sweaters with grumpy toddlers in tow. He wonders if Andrew is already halfway to wherever it is that he calls home. 

Before Neil goes too far down that rabbit hole, Andrew clicks his tongue. “You want to be good for me? How about we start with something easy, then: the truth about your bet.” 

That's more than enough of a distraction from his thoughts. The box feels suddenly cold in Neil’s hands. Mocking, as though it knows he hasn’t earned what's inside, because he is now almost certain that it’s a collar. It’s the right shape and size and just heavy enough. When he shakes it again, he definitely thinks the clack-y sound is from a metal buckle. 

“It was a joke,” Neil explains. “Mostly, I mean. Thea kept saying I’d be collared by Christmas, and Kevin said it’d never happen. I didn’t think they’d actually bring it up with you.” 

“Would you have told me about it?” 

Neil doesn’t know, honestly. He doesn’t think it was that big of a deal, but it feels like the collar in his hands is slipping out of his reach. Deep down, he knows the real answer is no, because he wouldn’t want Andrew to feel pressured into giving him something that he hasn’t earned. 

He has a sick feeling. Andrew must be testing him by buying some kind of luxurious, personalized collar; it has to be a taunt, to see if Neil is weak enough to accept Andrew's gift when they both know full well that he hasn't earned it. 

A collar won’t actually make him Andrew’s sub, but he can't help how much he wants it right now. 

So he tells the truth. He says _no_ quietly and hopes that a stupid bet hasn’t killed his chances at being Andrew’s collared sub in the future. 

“And _your_ bet,” Andrew continues, “was that I would run you over with - was it the Mas? You bet that I’d run you over with the Mas. By Christmas. Right?” 

Neil doesn’t feel relief from Andrew's amused tone. 

“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. “Yeah. That was my bet.”

“So the way I see it, you have a few options. Unless your list of kinks now includes attempted vehicular manslaughter or mechanophilia, I am going to hazard a guess that you were prepared to lose the bet from the start. You haven’t opened the box, have you?” 

“No.”

“Then here are your options,” Andrew states, and Neil feels as though they’re together right now despite the distance, sitting side-by-side in the alcove instead of miles apart. It’s not quite so lonely, all of a sudden. “Inside the box is a collar with a lock. I already have one of the keys, and the spare is in there for you to keep in case of emergency. If you want Thea to win the bet, you will lock yourself into the collar for the next week until she and Kevin come back. If you want Kevin to win, or if you don’t want the collar at all, you will not open the box and you will forfeit what’s inside. If you chose that option, I’ll stop by today to pick up the unopened box. To be clear, I really don't care which option you pick." 

There’s a pause, and what sounds like a car door slamming.

"I have to go,” Andrew says. “The choice is yours. If you decide to open the box, send me a picture within the next hour to let me know you’re locked in. Otherwise, I’ll assume you want me to come pick it up - unopened. Remember: you don’t get to see what’s inside before you make your decision or you’ll be the one winning the bet.”

The line goes dead before Neil realizes that Andrew (kind of) indirectly threatened to run him over with the Maserati, and he can’t help but grinning down at the box in his lap. 

Then, he realizes that if Andrew is offering to pick up the box in an hour, he hasn’t left the state yet. Neil tries not to focus on why that makes his palms sweat as he sits down in the middle of the alcove. His building is basically deserted and he honestly doesn’t care if someone walks in on him unboxing Andrew’s collar. 

Although if he's being honest, he already has half a mind to pick the option where Andrew runs him over with the Mas. He could tear open the box right now and wait outside for the next hour until Andrew rolls up, waving the collar in one hand like a surrendering white flag. A part of him _really_ wants to see Andrew try to call his bluff on this.

But he’s enthralled by the idea of wearing a collar that Andrew picked out specifically for him, so he doesn’t consider that option for more than a moment. 

It seems to be a deceptively simple decision, though. His gut reaction is to open the box, put on the collar, and let Thea win the bet. He only hesitates because Andrew knows how much Neil and Kevin butt heads, so Andrew probably expects Neil to pick Kevin as the loser. Which means there has to be a catch to the actual collar part, because Neil getting a collar and Kevin losing the bet and Thea winning is the perfect scenario in Neil’s mind.

It's probably something Andrew thinks is hideous. Then again, Neil has never met a collar he doesn't like, so how bad could it really be?

He traces Andrew’s careful penmanship across the front, spelling out his name slowly, letter-by-letter: _NEIL JOSTEN._ It had to be a deliberate choice to address it this way, Neil thinks, since Andrew now knows there are other options to pick from. But Neil tries not to read too much into it since it _is_ his name, after all. 

He peels back the paper slowly, his decision made, and slices through the tape on the box with his keys until it’s open. It takes a few shakes to dislodge whatever is stuck inside, but it’s not a collar that falls out.

Several rocks - garden variety, grey, quickly determined to be unremarkable - tumble into his lap. He turns them over in his palm before setting them on the ground. 

He digs into the box this time and find an even smaller box, only an inch long, taped to the inside. His first reaction is to call Andrew a liar, since there’s no way a collar can fit inside of such a small box, but then he opens it to find a small key, a thin silver chain, and a heart-shaped padlock the size of his thumbnail engraved with _brat._

Neil stares at it for an entire minute, trying to understand what he did to deserve this (he knows the answer is _a lot,_ since he’s been pushing Andrew’s buttons ever since they met, but he’s too busy feeling sorry for himself to remember why he’s being forced to wear this particular collar). 

Because it isn’t just a plain chain, after all; it’s a day collar, made to be as discreet as possible for 24/7 wear. In theory, it should be subtle enough that no one would know it’s even a collar unless they knew to look for the padlock against the nape of his neck. The problem with this day collar is that it isn’t discreet in the least - an oxymoron, of sorts. There’s a delicate O-ring in the center made to look like the silhouette of a cat’s face: two tiny cat ears on top and a set of tiny cat whiskers along its cheeks, complete with a tiny cat bell dangling under its chin. If he was used to wearing cat ears and a tail and purring during his scenes, this would certainly be more discreet to wear in public than a full fursuit. But he’s not into pet play. He really doesn’t _want_ to wear what looks like a cat necklace that a five year old would buy off of the clearance rack at Claire’s with leftover allowance money. 

It doesn’t make sense for Andrew to give him this kind of collar, since it fits neither of their play styles.

Then again, Neil remembers the night they first spoke - the cat ears he had been wearing for Halloween, the whiskers drawn on his cheeks - and he must be delusional to think that this is just a random, embarrassing collar. He almost dares to call it - albeit warped - sentimentality. 

But then he remembers that by opening Andrew’s _gift_ (if he can even call it that; it’s starting to feel like a punishment), he has agreed to wearing a bell around his neck for the next week, and it loses all sentiment immediately. 

If he really hates it, there’s still the option of getting run over by the Mas, of course. But as Neil looks at the aberration in his hands, he realizes he can have some fun with it. Wearing a bell is a small price to pay for what he's about to do to Andrew.

He clasps the chain behind his neck using the _brat_ padlock, the metal cool against his skin. The bell jangles with every step he takes as he goes back upstairs to his apartment like he’s an actual goddamned cat. 

As soon as he sees his reflection in the mirror, he decides this is definitely a punishment, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to suffer alone.

If Andrew wants to give him a locking collar with a fucking _cat face_ and a _bell_ and a _heart-shaped lock,_ Neil can interpret the rules loosely. He won’t take the collar off, and he has no intention of cheating this week. He’s going to be _good._ He’s going to embrace his new collared life as Andrew’s kitten for the next seven days, starting right now.

It’s quick work to find the things he needs to complete his look before he takes a picture for Andrew, completely aware that his 60 minute countdown is already ticking. 

The one toy he thought he’d never have a use for is easy enough to locate. He’s kept it in the bottom of his junk drawer since he bought it, intent on keeping it separate from the rest of his collection but unable to throw it away. It's almost as though he had somehow known he would have a use for it one day. He suppresses a shiver as he touches the pink plastic hesitantly and sets it on his bed as he locates the rest of what he needs. 

The two pairs of cat ears he owns are easy to find: one black, one auburn to match his hair. He chooses the auburn ones since they’re far more realistic and he’s going for unsettling right now, not cute. 

He sends up a silent apology to Kevin, who’s probably in the air somewhere over Colorado at the moment, and sneaks into his bedroom to find the rest of the finishing touch. 

By the time he has his phone set on self-timer on the floor in front of his bed, there’s only ten minutes left before his time is up. Neil has transformed into the kittenish sub Andrew created by gifting him this collar. Neil's ears match his hair, and they’re sat atop his head, tilted to one side coquettishly. A few whiskers are carefully drawn onto each cheek, along with a small black ‘T’ painted on the tip of his nose with eyeliner. He’s got gloss on his lips and glitter on his neck to highlight the column of his throat beneath the goddamn collar. The shirt, borrowed from Kevin (sans permission), completes the look: a tank top with the words _lick my pussy_ in a black font across the front. It had been a punishment Thea bought for Kevin, who had worn it once and then abandoned it forever. Neil doesn’t feel at all bad using it now. 

The finishing touch - the part that took the longest to prepare - is the toy: a small neon-pink butt plug with a fluffy pink tail. While the rest of his collection has gotten plenty of use, this plug is pristine. 

Or - it was.

Neil shifts on the carpet, settling onto his knees with his ass in the air, his black briefs pulled down over the curve of his ass just enough to reveal the tail. He tugs the pink fluffy monstrosity towards the side of his hip as bites his bottom lip and stares directly at the camera. 

The shutter clicks and he leans forwards, taking a heavy breath as he realizes that the tail plug is still _very much_ a sex toy, and he tries to ignore his growing arousal as he checks the finished product.

It is, of course, nothing less than a work of art. He looks perfectly fuckable, walking the line between obscene and innocent with practiced intent. Technically speaking, all Andrew will see in this picture is Neil’s new collar, his exposed neck, and the few inches of skin on his hip where he’s slid his boxers down to let the tail loose. The black fabric of his underwear casts enough of a shadow over everything else that it barely looks obscene. 

Other than the tail, of course, which makes it _delectable,_ in Neil's opinion. 

Before he second-guesses his genius, he presses send and waits for a reply that comes almost instantaneously. 

_Call me._

Neil throws his pair of ears onto his desk. He rolls onto his back, feeling the plug shifting inside of himself as he reads over Andrew’s words. He has to suppress the urge to text back all the things he’d rather they do instead of talking right now. 

He manages to type out a quick response, because he doesn’t know if he can manage forming coherent sentences while the plug is still in place. 

_But I followed all of your rules._

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s stroking the tail with one hand, and he drops it, startled, when his phone starts to ring. He immediately puts it on speaker because he would prefer to have this conversation with full use of both of his hands.

“Neil,” is the immediate response from Andrew. “Care to explain?” 

Neil is still laying on the carpet in front of his bed, and he arches his back as he reaches back to push the base of the plug, leveraging it against his thumb to massage it in a slow, circular motion. 

“Nah,” Neil says breathlessly. He knows better than to be touching himself like this when Andrew can hear him, but he can’t help but close his eyes and listen to the sound of Andrew’s breathing down the line. He wonders if Andrew is just as hard as he is right now.

“You own a plug with a tail,” Andrew says after a moment. “A pink, fluffy tail.” 

It certainly isn’t the best quality plug that Neil owns, but it does the job now as he tilts it slightly, the firm silicone pressing against his prostate. He almost moans, but manages to turn it into a slightly more coherent agreement as he answers Andrew’s non-question: “Mmhmm.”

His cock throbs with interest, and he puts the phone on speaker so he has a free hand to palm himself through his boxers. There’s a loud click on the other end of the line, and when Andrew speaks next, there’s a slight echo.

“It’s still inside of you,” Andrew states bluntly, and Neil groans softly in agreement. He didn’t expect to be hearing those words from Andrew, because he had every intention of sending the picture to Andrew and calling it a day. 

But now that they’re here, he wants Andrew to call him a slut, to tell him he’s a filthy sub who needs to be punished. Except they haven’t talked about that yet, and he’s dimly aware that Andrew won’t do that until he knows exactly how far he can go. Still, it doesn’t stop Neil from wanting it. 

“You’re wearing my collar, Neil,” Andrew says in a low, rough voice. “And the first thing you do after putting it on - during your week alone in an empty apartment - is fuck yourself on your bedroom floor.” 

In the back of his mind, Neil realizes that Kevin has to be in on this, because there’s no other way Andrew would have access to the mailbox _and_ know that Neil was alone for the next week. But the thought of Andrew imagining Neil as he is now, flushed with desperate arousal on his bedroom floor, pushes Kevin to the back of his mind. Neil’s revenge can come later.

“So?” Neil asks, breathing out heavily as he twists the plug, tilts it, bears down against it until he can feel the soft glide of silicone shifting and moving inside of himself. “Is there something wrong with that?” 

Andrew’s voice comes out low, meant only for Neil’s ears. “I never said there was, _princess.”_

Neil swallows, unable to speak as the nickname he’d given Andrew last week is thrown back at him. His cock, however, takes immediate interest and he tries not to betray how affected he is by that single word. Andrew doesn’t need to know just how much control he has over Neil right now. He needs to redirect their conversation away from whatever precipice they’ve steered it towards. 

It takes everything he has not to say _tell me I’m your sub,_ because he can’t stand to hear Andrew tell him he’s not right now - not when he’s wearing a locking collar with a bell and he’s got a tail plug in his ass and one hand slowly working over his cock through the fabric of his boxers. 

Neil lets out a quick _fuck_ under his breath that he thinks Andrew can’t hear. 

“Tell me the truth,” Neil blurts out, trying not to say the words bouncing around inside of his head. “It bothers you that I’m doing this while wearing your collar, doesn’t it? That’s why you called. Because I’m your - _fuck_ \- slut.” 

He almost says sub. _Almost._

He doesn’t know if he has gone too far by insinuating he's Andrew’s anything.

Andrew’s response is measured, careful. “You think that makes you my slut?” 

Neil shudders silently as he imagines Andrew leaning over him, one hand trailing across his back and pressing down until he has Neil pinned to the ground and entirely at his mercy, his voice growling out: _hands off - you didn’t ask permission to touch yourself, princess._

And God, if this isn’t a sign that Neil needs to take a cold shower, he doesn’t know what is.

“Yeah, I think it does,” Neil says. His face is pressed against the rug now, so the word comes out sideways. Andrew must get the gist of it, though, because he clicks his tongue. 

“Stop, Neil,” Andrew says, and Neil barely manages to do so. “I’m going to spell this out for you, and I want you to listen carefully because I don’t have time to say it twice right now: you’re not my _slut._ Understood?” 

Neil wants to whine that he’s wearing Andrew’s collar - even if it is a joke or a punishment or whatever - and that he answered the phone with a four-inch plug up his ass, so by default that should qualify him as Andrew’s slut. But being alone and half-fucked out and desperate for Andrew’s touch is maddening, and his whine gets lost halfway between his brain and his mouth.

What comes out instead is anger: “Not your slut. Got it.”

Andrew’s response takes long enough this time that Neil starts to wonder if he’s still there, but there’s shouting in the background on Andrew’s end, words like _hurry_ and _boyfriend_ and _don’t_ that make Neil more confused than anything else. 

“You’re _not,”_ Andrew says, but there’s hesitation in his tone. Quietly, he adds, “Make sure you take care of yourself tonight.”

Neil’s about to say he doesn’t need permission to get off in the privacy of his own apartment when Andrew interrupts his half-formed protest, his voice so soft that Neil almost thinks he’s imagining it at first.

“Because tomorrow night, you’re going to meet me at Eden’s and it’s going to be my turn to take care of you. Understood?” 

The collar around Neil’s throat feels tight suddenly, and he pulls on the chain nervously, trying to understand what Andrew means by that. 

“It’s Eden’s holiday party tomorrow night,” Neil says dumbly, grasping at whatever straws he can to figure out what this invitation means.

If it’s an invitation at all. It sounds like a command, actually, but it’s one that he won’t object to right now. 

“Then you should already know that there’s a dress code that doesn’t include whatever the fuck it is you just sent me,” Andrew says. In the background, Neil hears the _click-click_ of Andrew’s lighter, the inhale as he draws in a lungful of smoke and nicotine and tar. “Your answer, Neil. Tomorrow night. Yes or no?” 

“Yes,” Neil says before Andrew changes his mind.

“Then get there by 7PM. Jean will have your bands ready by the door.”

The line goes dead, and Neil blinks back at his phone screen before a slow smile spreads across his face.

 _A Cheshire smile,_ a mocking voice in the back of his head tells him, and it only kills his mood a little bit. He’s not a cat, even if he keeps the tail in for an entire hour longer than necessary, doing exactly what Andrew told him to do and taking care of himself. 

\---

Despite his impromptu photoshoot the day before, Neil isn’t about to sacrifice an opportunity to wear a themed holiday outfit for the sake of another bad cat joke. By sunset, he’s on Facetime with Thea, sitting in front of a mirror with his phone propped up so she can watch him work. 

“We have reservations at the Royal Table in fifteen minutes,” Kevin says in the background.

Thea shushes him while Neil traces eyeliner along his waterline, and she leans closer to the screen to inspect his handiwork.

“Perfect,” she says. “There should be a kohl pencil in there, too. Overline everything with that and it’ll smudge like hell _when_ he touches you.” 

"Presumptuous to think he'll be touching me," Neil mutters, but he does as he's told. “Like this?” 

He tests the staying power by running his pinky finger underneath his right eye, and the result is a dramatic smear of black. A smudged-up Neil stares back at him from the mirror, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“Exactly like that. Now fix it before you go,” Thea tells him. 

Kevin groans in the background. “Seriously, we have to leave or they’ll give our table to someone else.” 

Neil fixes his face one last time, tilting his head from side-to-side as he admires the faint shimmer of red glitter across his cheeks. 

Thea pulls Kevin into her lap and rubs his neck while he grumbles about the time. “You look great, babe.”

Neil doesn't know whether she's talking to him or Kevin, but he caps the eyeliner and starts cleaning up the mess on his bathroom counter.

Kevin frowns at the screen, finally deciding to participate in their conversation instead of complaining. “What’s with the necklace?” 

The bell on Neil’s collar jingles as he stands up, trying to distract them from how un-Neil it looks by putting as much distance between himself and the camera as possible. 

“Neil,” Kevin says firmly: an unexpected command. “Show me your neck.”

Neil tries to laugh, shoving an armful of makeup under the sink. He can only stay down there for so long, though, and when he pops back into view, Kevin's face takes up the entire screen. 

"Neil. What the _fuck."_

To be fair, it's not as bad of a reaction as Neil expected, especially given that Kevin is about to lose a couple hundred dollars. 

"Look, it's been really nice talking but I have to go, my Uber's gonna be here in two seconds so -"

"Don't you fucking dare -"

It's too late. Neil _does_ dare, and he hangs up and puts his phone on do not disturb. He knows he'll have to talk to Kevin and Thea about the collar eventually, but he can't handle all of Kevin's questions right now. He still doesn't know what to make of the stupid collar, and he doesn't want to listen to Kevin wax poetic about what the _gift_ of a collar means. He doesn't want to be reminded of all the responsibilities and trust that come with such an _intimate_ gesture, because none of those things apply here. This collar isn't a promise; it's a joke. 

Not that Neil isn't laughing - he is. But he can't deny the sharp sting of disappointment that fills the spaces in between his amusement. 

He chews on his lip for a minute before realizing that Thea has taught Kevin most of what he knows about collars. And given that she just spent a half-hour talking Neil through his makeup choices for the evening, he's pretty sure she saw the collar and knew exactly what it was. But she didn't say a word about it. 

She's a fucking saint, Neil decides, but he doesn't have time to thank her. That'll have to wait for when she gets back.

Right now, he has a party to get ready for.

\---

Jean is standing outside of Eden's when Neil gets there. It's well past sunset, and the temperatures are barely above freezing. As usual, Neil wears his sweatpants over his outfit to keep warm.

"Ah, our special guest of the evening arrives," Jean says as soon as he spots Neil. He pulls out a few wristbands and starts fastening them to Neil's wrist. 

Sub.

Taken. 

Observer.

Neil pulls back before Jean can put that last one on. "Wait, Andrew was going to -"

"He already chose these for you," Jean asks. "You don't have to wear them. If you'd rather choose your own, I've got a whole box here to pick from. What are you feeling? Dom? Switch? Single?"

Neil twists his _taken_ wristband nervously. He assumed that Andrew meant they'd be scening together when he said _it's going to be my turn to take care of you._ It was kind of implied that there would be a participant wristband in the mix.

"It's fine," Neil says after a moment. It's disappointing, but it's not like he should've expected anything less this week. 

Jean tilts Neil's chin up playfully. "You know he’s going to treat you right.” 

Neil nods along, trying to take comfort in the fact that - at the very least - Andrew has marked him as taken. 

“He’s already in VIP waiting for you. Room 8, whenever you’re ready.”

Once he's inside, Neil sheds his coat and sweatpants and thick socks. 

Eden’s is packed. The smell of festive evergreen and cinnamon is overwhelming, real garlands are draped along the bar and DJ area. Red and green and while lights dance across the room. He spots mistletoe hung above the hallway to the bathrooms, taped to the DJ booth, and strung from the rafters above the dance floor. One sprig is directly over the bar where Roland's pouring drinks, and he flashes Neil a quick smile between customers. 

Usually, Neil would talk with him for a little bit, but there are too many customers for that tonight, and Neil only has a few minutes until it's seven o'clock. He gives Roland a quick wave before climbing the stairs to the VIP area.

Neil pauses at the top, pulling on the cuffs of his sweater sleeves. Everyone looks carefree from this far away. It's hard to see spilled drinks and sticky floors and sweat from all the way up here, and he wonders if this is what Thea means when she talks about holiday cheer. He thinks he could get used to it, if it is. 

After one last look, he pushes open the door to the VIP section. The music is muffled as Neil makes his way towards room 8, and his outfit jingles with every step. He hopes Andrew hears him coming, but he still knocks on the closed door to announce his arrival.

The door opens, and Andrew stares at him for all of two seconds before starting to shut it immediately.

Neil sticks his hand out to stop it from shutting in his face. “Wait -”

“Dress code, Neil,” Andrew growls, but his gaze is fixed to the reindeer antlers on Neil’s head, each prong adorned with a jingle bell.

“I'm festive,” Neil says, tilting his head so all the bells jingle. “Eden’s website says the dress code is _festive._ I really couldn't be more festive right now.” 

Andrew lets go of the door, and Neil takes it as an invitation. They stand in the open space, staring at each other for a moment. Andrew’s black sweatshirt says _this is as jolly as I get_ in between rows of skulls and coffins. Neil looks down at his own oversized Christmas sweater, featuring a decapitated gingerbread man with the words _EAT ME_ embroidered in red and green yarn. It hangs past the tops of his thighs, and underneath he’s only wearing white stockings and ass-tight red shorts. If he’d had a week to order his outfit online, he’d be in a much more provocative state, but he can’t complain at how well his outfit turned out given his limited time and resources.

“You’re supposed to wear _my_ collar,” Andrew says, pointing at the actual collar on Neil's neck - an inch-wide nylon dog collar with a dozen jingle bells stitched to it. It had been a last-minute purchase that Neil picked up at the pet store on the way over, and it turns out his neck is the same size as a medium dog. It's the first time he's worn a collar actually made for an animal, but it's not uncomfortable. 

Neil can't help but bite his lip to hide his grin. He tugs on the chain with the cat face, pulling it out from beneath the neckline of his sweater, pushing up the dog collar and nudging aside the edible green-and-red candy necklace that he added to further hide Andrew's _collar._ “I am.” 

Honestly, Neil thought it was a stroke of genius to out-jingle Andrew’s obnoxious collar; Andrew clearly doesn’t feel the same about it. 

“Off,” Andrew says, tugging on the festive dog collar. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell Neil to get rid of the candy necklace. Yet.

Neil obliges, but Andrew still doesn’t sit down on the couch in the middle of the room. He rakes a fingernail down Neil’s white stockings, reaching out to catch Neil’s wrist at the last second. He plucks each of the wristbands.

“How do you feel about these?” 

Neil shrugs, and lets Andrew trace the curve of his wrist without shying away from his touch. 

Andrew pulls out two participant wristbands from his pocket, and Neil realizes Andrew isn’t wearing any bands other than Dom and taken. Andrew dangles one of the participant bands in front of Neil's nose. “Would you rather have one of these?” 

Neil swallows dryly. He doesn’t know if there’s a right or wrong answer to that question, so he opts for the truth and nods. 

“Then we need to talk,” Andrew explains as he sits on the couch. He doesn’t motion for Neil to join him. “If you still want to play after that, we’ll change your bands.” 

Once again, Neil finds himself nodding in agreement. Andrew crosses his legs, taking his time to get comfortable, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other resting on the armrest, before he motions for Neil to come forwards.

“Sit,” Andrew commands him. “We have limits to discuss. You’ve already told me what you want, so let's review what you _don’t_ want.” 

For the first time, Neil’s mind goes blank. He can think of a few obvious limits - knifeplay, bloodplay, kidnapping roleplay - but he’s not exactly experienced enough to know what else to put on the list. He might have a kink, or he might hate it. And what if the things he enjoyed with Roland or Jean feel different with Andrew? He explains that in starts and stops, but Andrew doesn't seem concerned by Neil's uncertainty. 

“How about this,” Andrew says, leaning back. “I’ll tell you what I have in mind for tonight, and you can veto anything that doesn’t interest you. You're in control once the scene starts - if something feels wrong, or you need to stop, you use your safeword.” 

“Sure.”

“What was that?” 

And fuck, if Neil doesn’t know what to do right now. He’s not Andrew’s sub, right? His wristband says taken but his mind says single. Before he can start spiraling about whether he should say _yes Sir,_ Andrew knocks his knee against Neil’s.

“Stop overthinking it. You’re wearing my stupid cat collar for the next week. I expect you to be respectful and communicative during our scenes during that time. In this room, I'm not _princess,_ understood? I know what you want to call me.” Andrew takes a breath, as if he's steeling himself for what Neil is about to say. "Say it." 

Neil tries it on for size, letting the words roll off his tongue. “Yes, Sir.”

It makes Neil's heart pound, his face heating as he watches a smug look settle across Andrew's face. He's waited months for this, and it feels so much better than he'd imagined. _Sir._ Better than when he'd accidentally called Andrew _Sir_ on Halloween, because he has permission this time. 

When Neil feels the beginnings of smile coming on, Andrew rolls his eyes. “I'm only letting you call me that because it's better than princess.” 

“Is it, though?” Neil asks.

Andrew knocks their knees together again. “Your brat is showing.” 

“Did you expect anything different, _Sir?”_ Neil asks, half-tempted to bat his eyelashes. He manages not to. Out of _respect._

Andrew doesn't say anything this time. He wipes his palms on his pants, and it’s the first sign Neil has seen tonight that the version of Andrew next to him is the same version that sat in the passenger seat of the Maserati and said _I’m not scared of you,_ the same version that kissed Neil like his life depended on it. It’s a reminder that this Andrew is just as fallible as Neil, just as breakable and cautious and slow to open up. Neil is putting as much trust in Andrew right now as Andrew is putting in Neil. 

There is no line between Andrew as a Dom and Andrew as a person. 

“If you need me to stop -” Neil starts, pausing for a moment to figure out what he’s trying to offer. “If you need me to stop bratting, you should say something.”

“Not my problem,” Andrew says. When Neil starts to object, Andrew repeats it: “Not my problem. That’s what I’ll say if I need you to stop bratting.” 

Neil chews that over for a moment before agreeing. “Fine. What about safewords?”

“We’ll use the stop light system. Red, yellow, green. Red means stop, no questions asked. Yellow means slow. Green means go. For non-verbal signs, an open hand means go, a closed fist means stop. I expect you to obey when I ask you to do something unless it's crossing a limit for you, in which case I want you to use your safewords. During a scene, I can touch you, but you will not touch me unless you’re invited. Bratting is allowed, but you will not beg, and I do not _ever_ want to hear the word 'please' from you. Those are my only limits that you need to know for now. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Sir.”

This time, Andrew rewards Neil by pulling his wrist into his lap, and he slips off Neil’s observer wristband. He doesn't give Neil the participant band yet, though.

“Tonight is a test-run. I don't want you in sub drop over Christmas, so we're starting slow until I know your limits better," Andrew explains slowly. "You mentioned cockwarming a few days ago, right?" 

Neil's palms twitch, and his pulse quickens as he imagines getting on his knees tonight and having Andrew in his mouth for the first time. It's not what he expected, but he wants it. God, does he want it. 

"I'd - fuck - yes, Sir. I'd like that." 

"Then I'm going to put you in a submissive position,” Andrew tells him. “You’ll kneel for me, and I’ll let you know when you can touch me, but you won't get my cock tonight. This is about testing how well you submit for me, understand? If it goes well, we'll talk cockwarming next time. I’ll touch you wherever I want unless there's somewhere you want me to avoid." When Neil shakes his head, Andrew lets out a long sigh and holds up the participant wristband. "So … do you still want to do this?” 

There isn't a place on his body that he wouldn't let Andrew touch, not a limit he wouldn't test if Andrew asked him to right now. It should scare him how willingly he's agreeing to this, because it's not nearly enough. Then again, he thinks it'll never be enough. The time they have together, the stolen moments between class and work and Eden's, the space they have to fight for in a world that would rather deny their existence - Neil's drowning in it. Each shared breath they take is a battle, each small touch a war waged against self and other and sometimes, when Neil loses, Andrew wins. So if they need to do this slowly, Neil doesn't care. It will never be enough, no matter what pace Andrew sets for them.

But Neil is too wrapped up in his own fantasies to think about that right now, and he doesn't even hesitate with his answer. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Andrew slides the green wristband on Neil’s wrist, and for the first time, Neil feels the weight of what they’re doing. It’s enough to make his heart catch in his throat, but the swell of panic subsides when he realizes that the wristband doesn’t actually change anything. Neil's still a brat that Andrew tolerates. Andrew's still a Dom that Neil trusts.

“On your knees,” Andrew says softly. He settles a cushion on the floor before guiding Neil into position between his thighs.

Neil settles quickly, resting back on his ankles once he's on the ground. He looks up at Andrew for another command, and the first thing Andrew does is take the jingle-bell antlers off of Neil’s head. He tosses them behind the couch, and the bells ring once, sadly, as they hit the ground. Neil smirks before he’s caught off guard by the look on Andrew’s face - guarded. Uncertain. 

“I’m good,” Neil says, scooting forwards slightly. He’s trying for reassuring, but it probably comes across as needy. It wouldn't be inaccurate to say he's both right now. He wonders if the art of give-and-take between a Dom and sub comes entirely from their complementary needs: a Dom needs control, and a sub needs to be controlled. 

Andrew stops Neil from moving again by placing a hand on Neil's shoulder. They both stop while Andrew breathes deeply for a few seconds, and then slowly, deliberately, he guides Neil’s head against his thigh, until Neil’s cheek is pressed against the inseam of Andrew’s black jeans. Neil's eyes slip shut as he allows the firm hand on his scalp to take control and pin him in place. 

Andrew's thigh is warm and soft against Neil's cheek, and tonight, Andrew smells like laundry detergent and allspice. It's vaguely reminiscent of the scented pinecones Neil sees at the grocery store this time of year, the ones that Kevin insists he's allergic to.

The smell of Christmas lingering on Andrew's clothes turns sour when Neil thinks of how he'll return to an empty apartment later tonight, where his only company is a stupid tree that blinks white-and-blue. How he'll spend the next seven days alone, staring at four walls or a grey sky or a gravel path or an empty street. His chest aches, because this is a reminder that Andrew has somewhere else to be once this is over. Maybe Andrew came to Eden's after spending all afternoon with his family today. Maybe Andrew is going to a Christmas party this week, where he'll get drunk on Eggnog with his siblings or cousins or aunts and uncles. Maybe he's got a ton of nephews and nieces that call him their favorite uncle and ask him for piggyback rides and make him steal Christmas cookies from the kitchen for them.

It hurts because he wants to see every version of Andrew, but he gets this one. 

It hurts because he wants to give Andrew every version of himself, but he doesn't know how. 

They're working with a time limit, after all. He has one week with Andrew's collar before things go back to the way they were. One week to call Andrew _Sir._

“Neil,” Andrew says firmly, his fingers tightening in Neil’s hair. He uses his grip to tilt Neil’s head back slightly. “Eyes open. Focus on me.” 

Neil does. Andrew keeps Neil's cheek pressed carefully against his thigh, but his grip doesn't leave room for Neil to move on his own. Instead of closing his eyes again and getting lost in the scent and warmth of Andrew’s body, Neil stares up at Andrew intently. It doesn’t seem to bother Andrew, who watches him back, keeping his fingers tightly fisted in Neil’s hair. 

Slowly, as the minutes tick by, Andrew’s fingers loosen, until he starts to card them through Neil's hair. Neil doesn’t look away, though, even when Andrew isn't forcing him to look up anymore. He clings to the promise of _now._ He has Andrew for this moment and that has to be enough. It doesn’t matter if they’re going separate ways in an hour or a day or a month or a year - it’s dumb to allow himself to get attached like this. Hell, Andrew hasn’t even called Neil his sub, but Neil is still submitting to him nonetheless. Neil wonders what that says about his own integrity, but pushes that thought aside. He's fine with this, whatever this is. 

They've got tonight. Even if Andrew hasn’t actually collared Neil or offered to be his Dom, they'll always have the kiss in the Maserati. They'll always have each other's traded truths and secrets and past lives, and that's more than Neil could ask for, really.

If _now_ is all they have, Neil will gladly take it. _Now_ is better than _nothing._

Andrew starts to massage circles against Neil's scalp. Deliberate, slow motions that make Neil’s eyes almost flutter shut, but all it takes from Andrew is a quick tug on Neil’s hair to remind him to pay attention. Neil keeps his eyes on Andrew the entire time.

Eventually, his legs begin to prickle with pins and needles, and he shifts slightly to relieve some of the pressure. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but Andrew notices Neil’s restlessness. 

“Tell me if something hurts,” Andrew says. “Use your safewords if you need a break, and we'll stop.” 

"It's green, Sir," Neil says quickly. His hips ache slightly, but not enough for him to ask to get up yet. He wants to stay here as long as possible, wrapped in Andrew's protective warmth. His world seems to narrow down to the points of contact between him and Andrew, as though the rest of his body isn't even participating tonight. 

Andrew wraps his hand around the side of Neil's head after a while, his thumb pressing deeply into Neil’s cheek as his fingers wrap protectives around his skull, behind his ear. “Do you know how long it’s been?”

Neil shakes his head a little this time, feeling soft and boneless as Andrew stares at him. 

“Thirty minutes. Is anything numb?” 

Neil shakes his head again, mumbling a quick _no, Sir,_ and nudging his cheek into Andrew’s palm. He purposefully does _not_ think about how cat-like the gesture is, and he stays quiet as Andrew starts to massage the side of Neil’s scalp again with his fingers. Petting him. Like a _cat._

After a few more minutes, Neil shifts again. This time, Andrew doesn’t ask if he needs to get up. He traces Neil's bottom lip with his thumb. Neil kitten-licks it, and when Andrew doesn’t pull back, Neil licks it again, sucking gently on the tip. The look Andrew gives him is murderous, but he pushes his thumb into the crease of Neil’s mouth. Even though Andrew says nothing, the command is crystal-clear: _open up._

Neil does, until he’s sucking on Andrew’s entire thumb, tasting nothing but clean skin as he stares up at Andrew, spit dripping slowly down his chin when Andrew moves his thumb in and out rhythmically. Neil hollows his cheeks, pressing his tongue against Andrew's thumb as he waits for further instruction. Andrew is clearly more than a little interested in the things Neil can do with his mouth. It's tempting for Neil to reach out and touch Andrew through his pants, to run his fingers along the hard length just inches from his face, but Neil remembers the rules Andrew gave him. He won't touch Andrew unless he's invited, and there's no invitation right now beyond the thumb in his mouth. 

Andrew presses his other palm against Neil's forehead, tilting his head back until Neil releases Andrew' thumb with a slick _pop,_ and they stare at each other for a moment in silence. Slowly, Andrew drags the back of his wrist across Neil's mouth and chin, wiping his face clean from the slobbery mess. 

Then, Andrew wordlessly pulls Neil up onto the couch next to him. 

"Do you want to know what your mouth feels like to me?" Andrew asks. 

Neil realizes just how achingly hard he is as soon as he moves, and he doesn't know at what point that happened, or why, or how he hasn't noticed up until this moment. He nods, though, because he can't form sentences. Even simple ones, like _yes, Sir_ seem beyond his capabilities at the moment. He wants to know how Andrew's mouth feels like. _Badly._

Andrew doesn't take silence for an answer, though. "Talk to me, Neil." 

He takes a shaky breath, steadying himself. It's addictive, this floating feeling, and his words come out uncertainly. He doesn't know what he's asking for, but he wants it. He wants it all. "Yes, Sir." 

There's a quick _good boy_ mumbled under Andrew's breath before he lifts Neil's hand to his mouth and nips at Neil's middle finger before licking it. Andrew spreads his tongue flat against Neil's skin before taking two of his fingers in his mouth. It's hot and wet and so foreign to Neil, but intoxicating in the best way. He's never had a thing for hands, but right now, he wants to add this to the list of things he'd very much like to do again. He wants Andrew's spit to run down his fingers, along his wrist, crisscrossing scars and burns and erasing every mark left behind by a less-than-gentle life. He wants Andrew's tongue to wash him clean of every bad memory, every nightmare and broken dream. 

His mind doesn't stay in that place for long, though. Andrew bites Neil's fingers gently at first, then firmly, until Neil feels his skin and bone pinching. He almost whimpers when the pain goes straight to his cock, and he wants to reach down and touch himself through his shorts.

Which he can do, because he _does_ have one hand free, but Andrew seems to follow Neil's thought process beat-for-beat. Before Neil even moves, Andrew pins Neil's wrist to the couch. It's a silent command, since Andrew can't exactly talk with two of Neil's fingers halfway down his throat. That's how it feels, at least; Neil can feel Andrew's molars against his skin when Andrew swallows around him as though he's trying to prove just how little sensation his soft palate has, how little care he has for a gag reflex. Neil shivers when he thinks of repeating this without their clothes on, with something more than his thumb in Andrew's mouth, with more contact that Andrew's hand on his wrist. 

Neil tries his best to stay quiet, but his mouth has gotten him into enough trouble that he should expect it at this point. It's the final straw when Andrew swirls his tongue around one of Neil's fingers. Neil lets out an aborted moan, and it comes out half-strangled sounding because he tries to stop himself. 

Andrew pulls Neil's fingers out of his mouth in response, and sits back until they're not touching at all. It takes an enormous amount of self-control for Neil not to touch himself now that his hands are both free, but it helps that his fingers are still coated in Andrew's spit. He doesn't exactly want to smear that against shorts and make it look like he's got no self-control.

He wipes his hand clean on his sweater instead while Andrew watches him. When he's done, Andrew reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Neil gets the message when Andrew tilts the pack towards him, a silent offering. He doesn't know if they're taking a break or if this is Andrew's version of aftercare. If they're done, he thinks it'd be better to leave; he doesn't need aftercare. Probably. Besides his aching cock, he doesn't feel bad. 

Then again, he didn't think he felt bad after his other scenes.

When Andrew lights up a cigarette, Neil feels like the scene is definitely over. He starts to get up to retrieve his jingle bell antlers from behind the couch, but Andrew pushes him back down with one hand until Neil's sitting again. 

"Don't pull that bullshit with me," Andrew says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Neil wonders if that's against the rules or not, but Andrew doesn't seem to care. "It might work with Jean or Roland, but the whole _I'm fine_ bullshit stops now. Take a fucking cigarette, chew on your candy necklace - I don't care. But you're not going to act like this didn't just happen and walk out of here alone. When we're done, I'm giving you a ride, unless you have a moral objection to that." 

Andrew takes another drag, closing his eyes as he exhales deeply. When he opens them, Neil is still staring at him. 

"Not enough for you, princess?" Andrew asks, but it lacks his usual gruff tone. Neil desperately wants to say that it's _not_ enough, but Andrew told him not to beg.

It might be written across his face, though, because Andrew leans across the couch until their faces are close. He breathes out smoke that Neil breathes in, and it tastes like familiarity and warmth.

Andrew says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Neil shifts on the couch. He wonders how many other subs have sat like this with Andrew, examined and dissected by such a scrutinizing glare. 

“Nothing.” It’s a lie, but it’s safer than the truth.

Andrew, however, doesn’t take it at face value. He tugs on Neil’s wristbands gently, until Neil scoots closer to him. Their thighs are almost touching.

“That’s a lie.” Andrew says. 

Neil doesn’t know what he should say. 

“Neil.” His name is a warning on Andrew’s lips, of patience being tested. 

“I don't need it,” Neil says. "Aftercare." 

"You look better when you’re telling the truth,” Andrew says.

He reaches for Neil's neck again, but this time he traces the curve of a burn scar before he ghosts his fingers across the locking cat collar.

“You'd look better without this,” Andrew says, leaning forwards to lick the side of Neil’s neck before biting a candy off of his necklace. Then, roughly, he takes Neil’s face in one hand and wipes his thumb under Neil’s left eye. “Better without _that."_

The grip Andrew has on Neil’s cheek is exquisitely unforgiving. 

“You look fucked out,” Andrew says in a bored voice, but the way his eyes rake over Neil’s face is anything but. He reaches out and pulls on the cheap candy necklace. The string snaps easily, and a spray of tiny peppermints rains down on both of their laps. He wipes at Neil’s other eye, until Neil is positive that Andrew is smearing his eyeliner and eyeshadow down his cheek, purposefully making a mess. "Do you want to take off my collar, or are we going to play again this week?"

Neil didn’t think he’d ever defend the fucking cat collar, but stranger things have happened. He stares down at the candy across their laps, the cheap dog collar on the floor, the discarded jingle bell antlers. 

"Remember when you said you'd destroy me?" Neil asks. He doesn't want to insinuate that he hasn't already been wrecked by Andrew, but he wants _more._ He picks up one of the candies until the sweat from his palm starts to stain his skin red. He's going to push to get what he wants, because that's what brats do best. "If I didn't know better, I would think you're not even trying." 

Andrew glares at him, but Neil only pops the candy from his palm into his mouth. It tastes sticky and overly sweet, and he sucks on it as he toys with the collar in question. "But to answer your question: yes. I want you to fucking _break_ me before I give this fucking thing back." 

Andrew ashes his cigarette and stares at him. They’re at a standstill, neither one of them willing to back down from a challenge. 

It only lasts a few seconds before their trance is broken. Andrew’s phone buzzes across the room, and he swears under his breath when he stands up.

Neil notices Andrew’s fingers shake slightly as he takes the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Looks like this party’s over, Josten. Time to go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE LONG END NOTE! i promise that (at least some of) it is relevant.
> 
> 1) Neil’s locking brat/punishment collar (idk if it’s a nsfw link? it's not an explicit picture, but click with caution if you're worried about someone seeing a BDSM jewelry/collar store in your browsing history) anyways [here’s the link](https://tobehis.com/collections/top-10-customer-pics/products/copy-of-classy-solid-925-hypoallergenic-sterling-silver-bdsm-slave-sub-pet-bondage-locking-day-collar-free-lock) if you're interested!  
> (And yes, Andrew got the biggest heart-shaped lock just to be extra obnoxious about it).
> 
> 2) Next chapter update will likely be sometime during the week of November 15 due to ongoing health shit. lol i keep telling myself it's gonna get better and then it does not. but the fun part is that eventually, someday, sometime, it _will_ be better and then i'll get to say i told you so to myself and my satisfaction will be immeasurable. in the meantime you can always hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/passive_phantom) or on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/passive-phantom) anytime for updates!! Also, to anyone waiting for another Andrew chapter (idk are there any of you out there?): this next one's for you, cheers!
> 
> 3) consider this a FRIENDLY reminder if you are someone who is eligible to vote in the US election: please vote vote vote VOTE. vote early, vote on election day … whatever you do, make it happen. in chicago we say 'vote early vote often' (as a joke, not endorsing actual voter fraud here) but … yeah, just VOTE. 
> 
> 4) LAST ONE I PROMISE!!! This is a short love letter to literally every person who's been commenting and reading and bookmarking and kudos-ing and sticking with this fic: thank you!!! 
> 
> 5) ok actual last one this time bc I can't not say this again ... HAPPY HALLOWEEN, HOPE YOU HAVE A SUPER SPOOKY WEEKEND!!!!!!!!!!!! <3


	14. If Only In My Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title credit: I'll Be Home For Christmas 
> 
> Let's continue the winter holiday speshullllls addicted-style, part 2 of ... it's gonna be a lot of parts. maybe like five total? idk. this one is the most depressing by far and least bdsm-related. I promise it will get better and much much much more festive next chapter!!!!!!!! and a lot more bdsm next time, if you're into that sort of thing. 
> 
> WARNINGS/TAGS: strong warnings for descriptions of depression/dissociation type feelings. Discussions of staying/leaving, not wanting to live through pain, Andrew touches scars, vague mentions of his time in foster care + being hurt by Nicky's/Aaron's broken promises, references to other people who hurt him - NOTHING SPECIFIC but it's referenced. As a reminder, there are never any explicitly detailed descriptions of violent/traumatic events in this fic. As always you can comment before reading or message me on twt/tumblr if you have any concerns before reading this! As always, stay safe!
> 
> And now the (mild) bdsm tags: Neil's still in his collar, Neil sends Andrew some pictures of himself masturbating in the front seat of the Mas while it's parked in a back corner of a parking lot, idk how to tag that. I wouldn't call it public sex/public indecency, maybe semi-public sexual activity? Also, Andrew looks at the pictures Neil sends him while he's still having a conversation with Nicky in Jim Bean's. It's not like he's showing them to anyone, but again, if him receiving those messages in public is something you don't wanna read about, skip everything after Neil leaves Jim Bean's. LMK if you think there should be a more detailed disclaimer about consent and/or kink and/or sex in (semi or fully) public settings bc it's not okay to expose someone to kink in any context - accidentally or on purpose - without their consent.

There’s a kind of reckless harm the bubbles underneath the surface of Andrew’s skin in the aftermath of his scene with Neil. 

He wants to blame it on the time of year, the depression he falls into around November that sinks into his bones and makes its home nestled between joints and cartilage and tendons until springtime comes around to shake it loose. It’s not uncommon for his days to blur together when he feels like this, but the darkness has settled deeper this year, sunk its heavy claws into him in a way that’s unexpectedly painful. 

Before, his routine helped him get by. The waking and sleeping and eating and fucking and scening at Eden’s all served a purpose beyond hedonism; every action either kept him grounded or comfortably numb. It was easier that way. 

But feeling numb isn’t enjoyable anymore - that’s what Neil took from him. Ever since he found out what the alternative feels like, he hates feeling nothing. More than anger, more than exhaustion and jealousy and violent self-hatred, he feels resentment that Neil has destroyed whatever safety he had created in his predictability. 

Neil did this to him, with his stupid dimples and stupid frown and stupid hands that tasted like stupid peppermint when they’d been in Andrew’s own stupid mouth last night. Or maybe it’s still tonight? The long shadows across his bedroom ceiling tell nothing of the time, and it feels like he’s been staring at them for hours. Days. He isn’t motivated enough to check the time. Whether it’s 2 AM or 7 PM, the world outside is dark and grey, and he’s still alone. 

As much as Andrew wants to blame Neil for this, though, he knows it’s at least partially his own damn fault as well. It’s not like he hasn’t known exactly what Neil has been doing. For a while, Neil has spelled nothing but trouble. From the first time Andrew saw Neil at Eden’s, spinning his observer wristband on the bar top and glowering at a half-empty glass of seltzer, Andrew knew should walk away. The way his stomach knotted when Neil turned his glare towards Kevin across the room should’ve been an omen, but Andrew ignored it. He kept coming back, kept hoping in equal parts that Neil would and would not notice him. He kept to the shadows and told Roland to keep his mouth shut. 

And then it happened: the first time he caught Neil staring back at him from across the bar, a few weeks before Halloween. That had been a challenge he didn’t want to back down from, but he did. He kept his distance, hoping Neil’s magnetic intensity would fade with time. 

It hadn’t. 

And although he’d like to say that it’s gotten easier since he’s had a taste of what Neil has to offer, he can’t. It only keeps getting worse. Now when they’re in the same room, it feels like they make their own gravity. 

But his biggest mistake by far was assuming that Neil would be an itch that he could scratch. 

Of course Neil is not an _itch._ He’s an insatiable hunger, a new kind of appetite that refuses to be sated no matter how hard Andrew tries. Every craving that he’s indulged, every taste of Neil on his lips, every careful allowance of skin and teeth and tongue, has left Andrew wanting more. No matter how much he gives, no matter how much he takes, it’s never enough.

He’s starting to think that he could take everything from Neil and still be unsatisfied. 

A month ago, he would’ve gladly taken everything from Neil if it meant satiating the beast inside of him, but these past few weeks, these past few days, he’s not sure what he would do if Neil offered it all to him. 

That’s a lie, actually.

He’d say no, even though it’s been months since Andrew thought about something, some _one,_ other than Neil when he got off. Something other than the way their mouths fit together, the way it felt when Neil put the soft blue collar around Andrew’s neck, the deliberate restraint etched into Neil’s tensed fists when he refused to touch Andrew during their first kiss in Jean’s backyard. 

If Neil offered to be his permanent, collared sub right now, Andrew would say no. Not because he doesn’t want Neil, but because he wants him too much. He’s been cataloguing every word and touch and sound just so he can torture himself later. Like he’s doing now, alone in his bed, playing memories on repeat like never-ending reruns of bad sitcoms. All he’s missing is a laugh track. 

The proof of his newfound instability is in the hollow feeling that settles in his chest right now, the question that buzzes in the back of his mind and drowns out the softness of silence that he can’t find refuge in anymore. Eventually, the discomfort chases him out of bed and he finds himself standing sock-footed in his kitchen with a cup of decaf in one hand and a donut in the other. The oven clock says it’s already 4AM. 

That’s not quite right. 

It’s only 4 AM. 

He thinks if he wasn’t alone right now, he could maybe get some goddamned sleep. 

That’s the sleep deprivation talking, though. It’s not even remotely true. He’s never slept in the same bed as one of his subs. He’s never wanted to. His solitude has been his safety and Neil is the furthest thing from safe. 

The only thing he knows for sure is that he can’t sleep like this, so he wanders to the couch, picking up his phone along the way before he settles in.

For a few minutes, he shuts his eyes and pretends that he belongs to the kind of world that Neil lives in, where sound isn’t muffled and lights aren’t dimmed. He pretends that he’s not alone in his apartment, in the torment of grey December mornings and grey December evenings and grey December in-betweens. He pretends that when he opens his eyes, Neil will be curled on the opposite end of his couch in a tight ball, feet tucked beneath his thighs as he watches an advert for ice cream on the TV and asks Andrew _do you really like that shit?_

He pretends that wanting that kind of intimacy isn’t new to him. 

But when he opens his eyes again, the room is the same shade of grey as it was five or ten or ten thousand minutes ago. It’s the same shade of disappointment, the same shade of solitude. It doesn’t stop the steady creep of memories from filtering in through the haze, the image of Neil on his knees last night pushing aside the rest of his thoughts. Andrew knows from experience that nothing will dull the intensity of the kind of desperation that comes from this particular brand of hopelessness, but it helps to know that in between the nightmares, there are pinpricks of light. Neil doesn’t make him feel better, but there are moments when they’re together that his existence doesn’t weigh so heavily on him. 

Even now, a few hours after the fact, he can’t stop thinking about the ways their bodies fight tragic wars against each other. They sacrifice ground to each other in a way that is just as intoxicating as it is painful. Their rhythm is an addiction that he can’t kick, driven by every low sound that gets caught in Neil's throat, every breathless shudder that rolls through Andrew’s body when he thinks _I can’t keep this_ and _I want to keep this forever._ Even after years of being a Dom, Neil’s invasion of Andrew’s senses is an unexpected novelty. He has already imagined every surrender that he’ll make to keep Neil for as long as possible - because he knows that he won’t keep Neil forever. Neither of them will last that long. 

But Bee is always saying that he should try to live less in the past, more in the _here-and-now._ He’s trying to be mindful. He’s trying to stay grounded. So he’s willing to give her method a try, if only to prove that it changes nothing. At the end of the day, they’re both going to be fucked when this thing they have inevitably falls apart.

Just last night, when Andrew had been drunk off of the taste of Neil’s fingers in his mouth, his heart raced as he wondered just how much Neil would take. And Neil, being impossibly obedient for once in his life, took nothing more than he was given. That didn’t stop Andrew from giving without being asked, recklessly testing his own boundaries, only bothering to pull back at the very last second. 

He did it all to see when Neil would break and finally demand something more of him. But Neil waited. He watched. He _wanted -_ that much Andrew could tell by the sounds Neil made, the aborted movement he’d made to touch himself before Andrew had stopped him.

In the end, though, Neil had obeyed. 

Sure, he’d been a brat about it, and he had complained that Andrew hadn’t destroyed him yet. But he didn’t beg. He didn’t say please. And he never asked for more. 

Andrew hates Neil for that. He hates himself more, though, because Neil hadn’t even had to ask before Andrew started cracking himself open, which means that Andrew has no one to blame but himself for the blanket of discomfort that’s settled over him. 

It was inevitable, really, that they’d end up like this, with Andrew staring at his blank phone screen just hours after seeing Neil. He wonders if this whole thing was a mistake as he types out drafts of incoherent texts only to erase them, half-convinced that he doesn’t deserve better, half-convinced that he does.

He doesn’t know which one is worse.

Eventually, though, he ends up with a complete sentence staring back: _text me when you’re done with work._

But it’s still not right. Before he can accidentally press send, he deletes it, replaces it with _we’re done,_ and then replaces that with _I’ll pick you up at five tonight_ before abandoning the entire process and throwing his phone onto the other end of the couch. He swings between wanting to be Neil’s Dom, able to tell him what to do and how to do it, and wanting to respect Neil’s boundaries as a sub that doesn’t technically belong to him. They haven’t officially agreed to a dynamic yet, and although Neil’s been willing to play along with all of his games so far, Andrew needs more than that before he can push this further. 

He should’ve asked Neil last night (before the fingers-in-mouth part) about a more long-term arrangement that would last them beyond the end of this week. He couldn’t do it, though. 

He knows that he has to ask Neil about that outside of a scene, when Neil can decide with a clear head what he wants. 

The next text that he types out is inspired by that simple desire: _I want more than this._

The message blinks back at Andrew, mocking him in it’s dialectic simplicity and impossibility. He doesn’t actually know if he wants Neil to agree to any of this, and he can’t press send. It sounds whiny. Needy. 

Another draft replaces that one: _are you awake?_

The message stares back at him until his eyes grow heavy, and he doesn’t know if his thumb slips at some point and presses send or not. 

The next thing he knows, his phone is vibrating in his hand. It feels like he’s only been sleeping for a few seconds, but the room is now bright with wintery sunshine and his neck aches from the odd angle he ended up sleeping in, collapsed against the back of the couch. 

It’s not Neil calling, of course; Neil still thinks phones are somewhat of a blight on humanity, but Nicky clearly doesn’t feel the same way. 

He sends the call to voicemail, but Nicky is Nicky, so it only takes a few more seconds before his phone starts ringing again. Andrew sighs, already feeling a headache building in the back of his skull as he answers it just to tell Nicky to stop.

“Picking you up from the airport wasn’t enough?” Andrew asks, letting the full breadth of his animosity for his cousin seep into those words.

There’s static on the other end, followed by Nicky clearing his throat nervously. “I already told you, we didn’t have a ride, and Roland said you still had the Mas - not like I thought you would’ve gotten rid of it, but -”

“Stop calling me,” Andrew says. “It’s too early for this.”

“That’s exactly zero percent reassuring, Andrew. It’s already late in the afternoon. You're not even awake yet and I'm -”

He interrupts Nicky again. “I thought I made it clear that we - us, talking - is not happening. _Stop calling me.”_

Andrew hasn’t figured out why Nicky is in town, but he doesn’t want to find out. The party line from both Nicky and Erik is that they’re here to make amends, but Andrew doesn’t believe for one second that this is some kind of altruistic visit. Nicky might seem like he’s trying to apologize, but if he was serious about it, he shouldn’t have flown into South Carolina without telling Andrew more than a day in advance. 

And, more importantly, he shouldn’t have waited years to do it.

Nicky’s voice is softer this time when he says, “I know it’s been a while, but we’re still family. I just hoped we could meet up.” 

“You made it clear that I’m not a part of your family when you left,” Andrew says coolly. 

“I never said that,” Nicky says, and he’s probably sitting on the edge of a California King in the ritzy hotel that Andrew had dumped him and Erik at on Saturday evening. He hopes Erik suffocates on one of the down pillows. 

But he already knows what he needs to say to end this, and they’ve been beating around this for long enough that Andrew’s head is beginning to hurt. 

“You left.” 

And it really is that simple. Nicky left. Aaron left. Andrew didn’t. 

The line fills with static for a moment, before a bell starts ringing in the background. By itself, it isn’t ominous, but then the line is filled with quiet voices and soft holiday jazz. Andrew should end the call, giving himself the last word before muting his phone for the rest of the week until Nicky is gone, but he can’t hang up now. He’s too unsettled by the realization that Nicky definitely isn’t at his hotel anymore. 

There’s something off about it, even if he can’t place his finger on it. 

But that doesn’t mean Nicky is digging around in Andrew’s business. He could be picking up kitschy souvenirs to bring back to Erik’s family, or buying gifts that he’ll ship to Chicago for Aaron and Katelyn. Maybe he’s got a craving for hot chocolate or gingerbread and they’re nowhere near Andrew’s apartment. For the first time since graduation, Andrew wishes he’d moved somewhere else. It’s a pain in the ass to box everything up and drag it up and down too many flights of stairs to count, but at least Nicky wouldn’t have his address if he lived somewhere else. At least then, Andrew wouldn’t have to worry that there will be a knock on his door.

Not that moving out would solve his Nicky problem. Nicky still has Roland’s number, after all, which is exactly how Nicky was able to confirm that Andrew was going to be in town this year before he booked his and Erik’s flights. All it would take to get Andrew’s new address would be a single call to Roland.

And that right there is another complication - Roland, who knows about the cat-bell collar that Andrew bought for Neil, who winked at Andrew last night when Neil trailed out of the VIP section behind him, who could easily tell Nicky any number of compromising things. 

Before Andrew can figure out who he’s more pissed off at right now, Nicky says something that’s lost to the poor connection. 

“Look, Andrew, I know - should’ve - sooner - and don’t - distance means I don’t - because I do - but you - to Stuttgart last year - he said that - calling for a few months -”

Andrew cuts him off mid-sentence, not bothering to try and decipher any of it through the crackling static. “I’m blocking your number if you call again.” 

Before Nicky can give him another half-baked excuse, Andrew hangs up. He doesn’t want to listen to Nicky try to rationalize the distance between them; it’s been too many years, too many miles, too many miscommunications for them to make this work. 

The drive from the airport to the hotel on Saturday had been proof of that. He’d only driven them because Roland called and said if Andrew didn’t pick up Nicky, he would send Jean to do it instead. And the prospect of Jean, with all of Andrew’s Neil-shaped secrets, being in the same car as Nicky, was enough to pressure Andrew into driving Nicky and Erik to their overpriced hotel. It was the lesser of two evils. 

And thanks to Nicky running his mouth for the entire drive, Andrew knows that they’re leaving South Carolina on Thursday to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas in Chicago with Aaron and Katelyn. 

That leaves only four more days until he’s gone again.

It can’t be that hard to avoid Nicky for four days. Andrew can survive that if he keeps his phone on silent and pretends not to see any of Nicky’s texts. He can’t actually block Nicky when he’s still in town, where there’s the potential for him to run into Neil or Jean or Roland or Jeremy, but once he’s on the plane to Chicago, Andrew can safely block him until the end of time.

Before he even gets the chance to mute his phone, though, it starts to ring. He’s pissed off that Nicky still thinks he can manipulate him into talking after all these years, even after Andrew told him no point-blank.

“You broke our deal,” Andrew snaps as he accepts the call, already feeling his stomach churn with the injustice of it all. Nicky can’t do this. He _left,_ for God’s sake. He left Andrew behind for bigger and better things, because Nicky has a place to call his home and a person to call his own. 

Andrew had, and still has, nothing. He has the same sad apartment that he had when he graduated, the same sad mattress, the same sad life. He even has the same sad therapist. 

Nicky doesn’t have the fucking right to try to force his way back in when it’s convenient. 

But it’s not Nicky’s voice that answers him.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure that I’ve been a good boy,” Neil says. Andrew can hear the faint jingle of Neil’s bell collar.

His throat is suddenly dry. He almost throws his phone, but it just ends up slipping out of his hand and lands softly on the carpet. He can hear Neil’s faint, _you still there?_

It’s just Neil. Not Nicky. 

_Neil._

It takes a few seconds before his anger turns into something molten, an emotion he can only recognize as twice as dangerous but half as intense.

“Neil,” the name falls from his mouth like a mistake in the making. Half-question, half-answer.

“I thought you’d want to know he’s here,” Neil says casually, as though they’re picking up on a conversation from earlier.

They aren’t, though. For a moment, Andrew wonders if he’s somehow forgotten what happened last night, but he knows their last conversation was him threatening to throw Neil’s jingle bell antlers out of the Maserati after Eden’s. And frankly, Neil’s antlers deserved to be burned. Or worse. They wouldn’t stop jingling the entire ride home, but Andrew figures he might have bought his own ticket to jingle-bell-hell by buying the jingle-bell cat collar for Neil in the first place. 

His temper cools slightly at the familiar ease Neil infuses into those words, though: _I thought you’d want to know he’s here._ As if they’re in this together, already on the same page after barely saying two sentences to each other. 

Unfortunately, he knows exactly who Neil is talking about, but he needs to hear him say it out loud. “Who?” 

“Nicky.” 

As if on cue, Andrew can hear Erik’s insufferable voice in the background: _did you already set aside one of the tea cakes for us? I wanted a chocolate one. No - make that two._

He’d prefer to keep Neil as far as humanly possible from Nicky and Erik, and makes a mental note to kill whoever it was that told Nicky about Jim Bean’s, because Erik’s voice in the background is not a coincidence. It is a declaration of war.

He didn’t expect Nicky to play this dirty. Not that Andrew’s been playing clean this whole time - he’s spent far too much time sending Nicky straight to voicemail for him to play innocent now, but at least he didn’t show up in Stuttgart at Erik’s parent’s house and start dicking around in their kitchen or something. Which is basically what Nicky’s doing right now by showing up at Neil’s work.

“Where are you,” Andrew grits out, despite knowing full well exactly where Neil is, and the resentment he feels towards Nicky for pulling such an underhanded move makes it difficult for him to put the question marks in the right places. His words are flattened by the threat of violence that sends ripples across the surface of his calm. Ripples become waves, become earthquakes, become tsunamis. 

Erik’s voice pipes up in the background again, _can we get one of those snowman lattes, too?_

Andrew can picture Neil in his work apron behind the counter, his curls slightly damp from being around steamed milk and espresso all day, his face furiously unimpressed as he waits for Nicky and Erik to finish reading the entire menu board before placing their order piecemeal, one item at a time. _Don’t give them the fucking snowman latte,_ Andrew tries to telepathically tell Neil. 

But Andrew can hear Neil’s muffled response: _you want that in a medium or a large?_

The sound of a coffee machine turning on drowns out Erik’s response, and when the machine finally shuts off, Neil hisses, “Where do you _think_ I am, Andrew?” 

Nicky isn’t supposed to know about Neil.

Neil isn’t supposed to know about Nicky.

He’s not sure if he’s more worried about what Nicky will say to Neil or what Neil will say to Nicky, but his headache is becoming worse with every passing second.

The last thing Andrew wants to do is waste a day trying to pretend that none of this bothers him, which only makes his headache worse. It’s always been easy to hate Nicky and the imperfectly perfect childhood he shared with Luther and Maria. It’s always been easy to hate the way that Nicky sets a match to every emotion he shows the world, setting alight effigies of happiness and joy to drown out the shadows of the sadness he carries. 

It used to be easy to hate Nicky for feeling everything so intensely, for not bothering to paint a chilling shade of apathy over his emotional canvas to make life more palatable. To make it easier. 

Andrew knows that he’s been the gravitational center of Nicky’s darkness for quite some time, eclipsing Luther years ago as the biggest shadow in Nicky’s life. If he had to pinpoint the exact moment it happened, he thinks it would be the moment Nicky called his father _Luther_ for the first time instead of _dad._

He shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. He’s supposed to be fucking furious about Nicky showing up at Neil’s work, for trying to manipulate him into talking. But all that Andrew feels now is a dull ache in the back of his skull and a sticky film of regret over the place in his chest that should house a guilty heart.

But when he dips into the place where he usually keeps his anger, he comes up empty.

It’s been a long time since he felt anything but hatred towards Nicky, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle the realization that there could have been something hiding beneath that hatred all along. 

Thankfully, the confusion he’s feeling doesn’t last long. His regret sets a cascade of memories into motion that ends with Nicky standing in the front door of Andrew’s apartment with tears in his eyes, as though he was the one being left behind. 

_Get out._

That memory shakes Andrew loose; he hasn’t done a fucking thing wrong. From there, it’s easy to replace his guilt with anger again. 

He stares down at the phone in his hand, half-expecting Neil to have hung up after such a lengthy silence.

But he hasn’t, and when Andrew puts it on speaker, he lets himself relax into the sounds of Neil filling coffee cups, scooping ice, pressing buttons on the cash register in the slow, intentional kind of way that spells out malicious compliance. 

Andrew scrubs a hand down his face, makes his way to the bathroom, and rifles through the cabinet. By the time he’s popped a couple of pills that he hopes are pain relievers, Neil finally breaks their silence. He must've heard the pill bottle. 

“You want me to deal with them? I could make it look like an accident.” 

It’s a joke, or it’s not; Andrew doesn’t care anymore. He takes a breath, letting it loosen something dark within his chest before he responds.

“No. I’ll take care of him.”

There’s a moment where neither of them speak, but it’s hardly quiet. Andrew can hear Nicky in the background, asking Neil rapid-fire how he gets soy milk to froth for lattes, how they make the cookies so soft, if they use gluten-free bread for the sandwiches too or just the French toast, if the cups are recyclable and/or biodegradable. Andrew can almost picture Neil raising an eyebrow, a silent _are you kidding me?_ meant for Andrew alone. The way Neil doesn’t need a single word to convey an enormous amount of annoyance in his silence feels intimate. 

Or Andrew is wrong and it’s just silence. Dead, empty silence.

Either way, it only lasts for a few seconds before Neil accepts Andrew’s answer without another word and hangs up. 

Andrew stares at his phone, willing himself to take all of those thoughts back. Neil’s silences don’t have to mean anything, and trying to convince himself of some intuitive connection between the two of them is fucking with his already fucked-up head. Neil is probably just pissed about Nicky being a nuisance, or hopeful that Andrew will drag Nicky out of Jim Bean’s before he starts knocking over all the flavored syrups. 

That’s all. 

\---

Nicky is, as always, inexhaustible. From the second Andrew steps inside Jim Bean’s, Nicky is on his feet, almost knocking over the small table he and Erik have claimed as their own.

It’s the first time in two and a half years that they’re in the same room - Andrew doesn’t count the ride from the airport because he refused to let either Nicky or Erik sit in the front seat. Plus, he spent the entire time pretending that they didn’t exist. 

Andrew just stares at him at first. Half of Nicky's face is illuminated by the flash of brake lights through the window, a red glow that fades as the car pulls out of the lot. For a moment, he looks the same as he did the last time he and Andrew stood in the same room together. If not for the quiet chaos of Jim Bean’s around them, Andrew could easily be living inside of a memory right now, rewound to the exact moment before everything started to slip sideways between them. But he can’t rewind this moment, can’t fast-forward to the part where it doesn’t hurt so much. 

He’s stuck watching this unfold in real-time, waiting for it to be over.

Not much has changed. Nicky has the same dark hair, the same bags under his eyes, but this time, there isn’t a frown on his face. There’s a nervous smile, and he keeps twisting his hands together until Erik reaches out to steady him. It’s only been a couple of years, but time has created a divide between the person Nicky used to be and the person he is now. 

Hopeful is the word Andrew would’ve used to describe Nicky back then.

This doesn’t look like hope, though, and that’s when Andrew starts to add up the differences that he ignored at the airport. This looks like defeat, especially when Nicky takes one step towards Andrew before aborting the motion halfway and stepping back towards Erik. He shifts nervously on his feet as he seems to remember who Andrew is, why it is that they’re such familiar strangers.

He wonders if Nicky sees the same changes from where he’s standing. What are the ways time has marked Andrew? How have these two years shaped him, hurt him? Can Nicky tell that Andrew doesn’t sleep most nights, that he still stares at the night sky almost every night and chain smokes his way towards dawn, slipping between days like his existence is voluntary? 

Can Nicky tell, by the look on Andrew’s face, that forgiveness is not on the table? 

There’s a moment of stillness where nothing is wrong and everything hurts, before Nicky allows himself a brighter smile. 

“Hey, Andrew,” he says. They’re ten feet apart, but the actual distance is much more than that, measured in weeks and months and years instead of inches and feet and miles. 

For now, Andrew doesn’t think about Neil and the potential damage Nicky could’ve already done here. He just watches Nicky from across the room and remembers that years ago, before they actually knew each other, Nicholas Hemmick made a promise to always be there for Andrew and Aaron, because he used to be the kind of naively optimistic boy who made promises with perfect strangers. That’s what Aaron and Andrew had been to him back then - strangers. It’s what he and Nicky are now: familiar strangers, but strangers nonetheless. 

When Nicky first met Andrew, he had been polite, relatively well-mannered, and loud but largely inoffensive. If Andrew wanted to play semantics, he could blame Nicholas Hemmick for making the promise, and Nicky for breaking it. And the proof of that broken promise now rests in the wrinkles of Nicky’s frown, the uneasy way his eyes dart from Andrew to the door and back again, as though he already expects the worst. But the finer details of Nicky’s face have shifted in a way that leaves him both unrecognizable and familiar. His cheeks are more prominent now, his confidence less audacious, his smile too brittle.

It’s hard to imagine that the man in front of Andrew is the same person he’d met all those years ago at the airport in Columbia, but there are still enough similarities to convince Andrew that it would be smarter to turn around and leave. 

He doesn’t have to make the same mistake twice. 

Nicky raises his hand to wave at Andrew and in that moment, he looks far more innocent than he has any right to be. All it does is remind Andrew of what it was like to be seventeen years old and terrified of the rage that had been eating him alive for the greater part of a decade. A cold shiver runs down his spine when he thinks of how cautiously he accepted Nicky’s promise back then, how Nicky proved him right when he chose Erik over a six-year-long promise. 

_Always_ doesn't mean six years. _Always_ means forever. 

The longer Andrew stays motionless and quiet, the more Nicky’s face falls. 

Something is different here, in the dull glow of late-afternoon sun, and he can’t stop wondering how things ended up like this. Logically, he knows exactly what happened. But he doesn’t know why he begrudgingly trusted Nicky in the first place when he came to South Carolina. Then again, Andrew was desperate at the time, eager for his independence but vaguely aware that until he turned eighteen, he’d be under Luther’s control. 

Nicky had been a more palatable alternative to that. Andrew was selfish to accept Nicky’s help, but that was the price of survival. 

God, he doesn’t want to think about this anymore. Andrew turns his back on Nicky, stuffing his gloves in his pocket as he makes his way over to the opposite end of the café, where Neil is standing behind the cash register and wiping the same five inches of countertop over and over again, very intently _not_ looking at Andrew or Nicky or Erik.

Andrew stops in front of the pastry case, and neither of them seems to know how to start this conversation. On the upside, if Nicky has said something incriminating to Neil before Andrew’s arrival, Neil doesn’t show it now. 

Before Andrew can ask Neil what happened, a customer pushes past Andrew and starts ordering some kind of overly-caffeinated monstrosity before Neil even gets out his required _welcome to Jim Bean’s, how may I help you?_ Neil reluctantly takes their order, and it isn't until the customer steps away from the counter that Neil acknowledges Andrew with a dramatic eye roll. 

_I hate my job,_ he mouths as he stabs a button on the blender after dumping too much ice and not enough coffee into it.

Andrew almost rolls his eyes back. Neil’s job consists entirely making cheap coffee at a second-rate college town café; it’s not exactly brain surgery. Still, Andrew can’t help but want more of Neil like this, overworked and flushed and annoyed and stressed to the point of snapping. He likes Neil on edge, and he doesn't question why Neil seems sharper today than most days.

While Andrew waits for Neil to finish the order, he lets his mind wander. He’s avoiding the real issues, and by that, he means he’s avoiding Nicky, who has been convinced by Erik to sit back down at their table for the time being. At least one of them has the good sense to give Andrew some space to think.

He watches Neil finish making the complicated drink with a perfunctory kind of half-assed-ness that Andrew finds inspiring. It’s difficult to not let any of his fondness show at the absolute murder written across Neil’s face when the blender stops prematurely. Neil hits it twice before it starts up again, and when he looks up at Andrew, there’s a look of smug contentment on his face until there’s a distinct metal _thump_ right before the blender churns to a stop.

Neil doesn't even seem to register the setback, and he pours the mostly-finished drink into a cup and leaves it on the opposite end of the counter without even calling out the customer's name before coming back over to the register. He wipes his hands off on his apron, and from there, Andrew’s imagination takes over. He wants Neil to show up on his doorstep after a shift, still wearing his stupid apron and smelling like dark-roast. He wants to bury his nose in Neil’s neck and inhale the lingering scent of sweat and coffee and day-old pastry that ingrains itself in his skin after every shift. Andrew wants to feel the weight of a long day dissolve under his fingers as he strips Neil down to nothing and works the sore muscles of his back loose. 

From there, he doesn’t just want Neil. He _needs_ him. 

He knows it’s a dumb idea to distract himself from the very real issues at hand by fantasizing about Neil, but if he’s already gotten this far, he might as well keep going. 

He pretends that he’s the one Neil will come home to tonight. He pretends that trust isn’t dangerous and that relying on someone doesn’t make him weak, as though the reminder of that very painful lesson isn’t sitting just twenty feet behind him. He pretends that he and Neil didn’t live such separate lives.

Not that he wants Neil to move in; he doesn’t want Neil’s presence to leach into the corners of his apartment, but he wants more than this. He supposes this is what it’s like to want a sub completely, but he’s never been into ownership as a kink, so he can't be entirely sure. But if this is just a milder version of it, a version where he could tolerate Neil being around more often than not, it might not be so bad. After all, he already appreciates Neil in his collar a little too much, even if it’s a cheap facsimile of the collar Andrew would prefer to give him.

Neil silently slides a drink across the counter towards Andrew. He hadn’t noticed Neil making it, but when he wraps his hands around the paper cup, it’s hot to the touch. Fresh. 

Something chocolatey, Andrew realizes as he takes a tentative sip, with plenty of whipped cream. When he pops the lid open, there’s crushed up peppermint and chocolate shavings on top, and he knows this isn’t a random drink. It’s a peppermint dark chocolate mocha. 

“Sweetest thing on the menu,” Neil explains, but Andrew doesn’t remember telling Neil he likes sweet things, and - 

“It’s not on the menu,” Andrew says, double-checking the board behind Neil, who doesn’t even try to deny it. Andrew glances over his shoulder towards Nicky, who looks too hopeful to be innocent in this. He's practically vibrating in his seat, and Erik puts a hand on Nicky's arm to remind him to stay put.

“I used to drink these every day in college,” Andrew says to Neil slowly, between sips. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” 

Neil doesn’t deny that, either, so Andrew frowns at the cup in his hand. Never has hot chocolate betrayed him like this, but he’s not about to take out his frustration towards Nicky on an innocent drink. He takes another sip. And fuck, it’s exactly what he needs right now after not having eaten anything yet today.

“I’m not paying for this,” Andrew growls.

Neil clicks his tongue and takes a few singles out of his tip jar and puts them in the register as though he’s being smooth. “Yeah, well, whoever paid for it deserves a thank you, I think.” 

Andrew hopes that Nicky is too far away to notice the way Andrew’s gaze lingers on Neil’s face, or that he's too distracted to realize that Andrew is taking inventory of the flush on Neil’s cheeks, the manifestation of his frustration after dealing with the general public for the past few hours. He can think of several ways he’d like to thank Neil for this, but he can’t focus on that right now. 

Neil only stares at Andrew expectantly for another moment before he raises one finger - _wait_ \- and turns around. 

“Gotta refill the cups,” he mutters as he reaches for a stack of cups on the shelf above the toaster oven. 

His fingers can’t quite reach, and he hops, stretches his arm higher. Andrew tracks the way Neil’s shirt rides up over the top of his jeans, the way his back flexes under the thin layer of fabric as he stretches higher, the way his apron strings hitch up over his hips, until Neil gives up after a second, third, and fourth unsuccessful jump. There’s a grim look of defeat on Neil's face when he turns back towards Andrew. 

Even if Neil didn’t have a height advantage over him, Andrew would not in a million years volunteer to help with this right now. 

“I give up,” Neil says.

“I’m not coming back there to help you,” Andrew says. He has visions of going to Neil’s apartment and putting every dish on the top shelf before asking Neil to make him dinner, and God, if that isn’t the hottest thing Andrew has thought about all week. Watching Neil get frustrated, struggling, failing - it’s intoxicating.

There’s something fucked up in his head if this is what gets him off now, but he’s into much more taboo kinks than this. Not that this is a kink; Neil just looks good when he’s struggling in this particular way. (He’d look better struggling against restraints, though.)

Neil glares at Andrew before staring up at the cups on the highest shelf and muttering, “Who the fuck do they think works here? Shaq?” 

This time, he glances conspiratorially around the café before he hikes one knee up onto the counter, grabbing the cupboard for balance as he barely gets one finger snagged around the plastic sleeve of cups and yanks it down. 

When he hops off the counter, his expression is bored while he starts restocking the cups next to the register.

“That was for your benefit, in case you were wondering," Neil adds casually. "There’s a step stool back here, but that’s not as fun.” 

Andrew doesn’t feel his face flush. He’s just red-cheeked because it’s cold outside, ignoring the fact that he’s been inside long enough for his fingers to have already thawed out completely. 

“Our ideas of fun must vary,” Andrew says, refusing to admit that he liked the view. He nods over his shoulder, towards Nicky and Erik, eager to change the subject. “So what happened with those two idiots? They threaten to drag you back to Germany with them if you didn’t call me? I hear it's nice there this time of year.”

“Oh - you mean your cousin?” Neil asks, and it’s clear from his tone he isn’t happy about this turn of events. “Well, he showed up and claimed to be related to you. Which I didn’t really believe at first, since I figured you would’ve said something about your family coming to town. But then he said his name was Nicky, and I remembered you mentioning him at La Margritte’s. I'm pretty sure that Roland brought him up at some point, too - anyways, he showed me these pictures of you guys from like five years ago and -”

The rest of Neil’s explanation gets drowned out by Andrew’s panic. He has no idea what pictures Nicky showed to Neil, but he knows Nicky has far too many compromising pictures from when they were younger for that to go over well. Especially considering the way Neil is smirking at him now, as if the reason for Andrew’s panic is written right across his face. 

“You were cute,” Neil says as he plays idly with the collar around his neck, the bell jingling quietly.

Andrew pointedly ignores Neil’s choice of past tense in that sentence. And also the word _cute,_ because he has never been cute in his life. “Nicky is no one to me.”

“Really?” Neil asks. “Because he was talking about your brother Aaron. And you’ve talked about both of them before, which sounds like they’re definitely someone to you.”

“Once,” Andrew says. “I mentioned them _once._ And they left, so they aren’t a part of my life anymore.”

“Did you expect them to stay here forever?” Neil asks, and there’s something hard in his expression, as though he’s barely holding back judgement.

All Andrew hears is _everyone leaves._

All Andrew hears is _I’ll leave, too._ It’s woven into Neil’s voice, the way his question is genuine, as if Andrew is the unreasonable one here. 

A customer queues up behind Andrew, but Neil doesn’t make a move to help them.

Andrew can’t move. He stares at Neil, mapping the scars across his cheek, the creases of his forehead when he frowns, the way he chews on the inside of his lip while he waits for Andrew’s response. Each worried detail is a knife in Andrew’s back, twisting deeper with every passing second.

It’s his own damn fault for believing he could handle this. 

_Don’t get attached._

_Don’t let him in._

_Don’t expect him to stay._

_Don’t._

_Don’t._

_Don’t._

He knows better, but he can’t help the way his worlds are colliding right now. 

_Too late._

“I’m leaving,” Andrew says, and he turns away to let Neil deal with the now-impatient customer.

And honestly, Neil deserves to be fired, because he ignores the customer and steps out from behind the counter, calling after Andrew. 

“Just like they left?” 

The man in line grumbles about Starbucks never being this slow, but Andrew stops and turns to stare at Neil, who knows nothing about what Andrew did for Nicky, for Aaron. 

Leaving is for the weak, Andrew wants to say, because leaving is easy. Staying is the part of living that destroys him, gnawing down to his bones until he’s sure there won’t be anything left when he finally bothers to assess the damage. Andrew fucking _stayed_ and Aaron and Nicky left, but they expected him to keep staying even when they were gone. As though it cost Andrew nothing to do something so dangerous. They expected him to make it work on his own, and he _has,_ but he hates them for that because Nicky made a promise that he wouldn’t leave, and Aaron - 

Aaron did much worse. 

Neil isn’t allowed to throw those words at him so casually, because Neil knows nothing of what it means to endure, to sacrifice, to suffer and crack and break under the weight of the very act of _staying,_ of remaining in one place day after day after day, until the pain of the past blurs into the present, blurs into his very skin and bones and the dull throbbing becomes a part of himself synonymous with survival. 

Until he couldn't leave at all, even if he wanted to. 

That’s what this comes down to: Andrew never meant to stay this long, to survive to the point that he'd have to deal with his demons. But his survival was an unintentional act of defiance, his body confounding his pain with strength, his stubbornness with resiliency, his desperation with endurance. He never meant for this to be a problem, because Nicky and Aaron were supposed to leave and Andrew was, too. 

But he never learned how to leave back then, and he still doesn't know how to leave now. If he knew, he would have already walked away from the tangled web of his life, uncaring of how it would affect Nicky and Aaron and Roland and Jean and Jeremy and Renee and Neil, because why not throw everyone into the mix? They’ve all failed him. And in return, he’s failed all of them. 

Andrew realizes that he’s never actually told that to anyone except for Bee. Not Nicky, not Aaron, and certainly not Neil. 

It gives him enough of a pause to acknowledge that Neil knows almost nothing of his past in general. It’s not fair to expect Neil to know Andrew’s histories through estimations and approximations at best, but he does. He expects Neil to know everything, because it feels like Neil _does._ At the very least, it feels like if he tried to explain it all, Neil would understand. 

Neil, who is staring at him now with his hands balled up in the hem of his apron. He hasn’t reached out to stop Andrew from leaving, and Andrew hates that Neil won’t give him such an easy excuse to leave. He refuses to believe that decision is intentional, but for as reckless as Neil is, he’s never been careless when it comes to touching Andrew. 

A part of Andrew thinks that if Neil touched him right now, if Neil reached out and asked him to stay, Andrew would do it. A part of him wants Neil to try, to see if that particular boundary is one that Andrew is willing or able to break. 

But Neil doesn't, and the thought is there-and-gone before Andrew can examine it closely. He doesn't want to stay. He doesn't want Neil to have that kind of power over him, the kind of power that can say _stay,_ the kind of power that can settle the restlessness in Andrew's stomach with a single command.

“My shift ends in fifteen minutes,” Neil says quietly, motioning towards the break room. “There’s a table back there if you want to wait for me.”

It’s an offer, not a demand, but the word catches in Andrew’s mind like a lead weight. _Want._

Andrew has never wanted to stay. 

But he needs to. 

“I hate you,” he mutters, stepping neatly past Neil as he takes his hot chocolate to the break room. Neil’s muttered _sure you do_ is almost enough to make Andrew turn back around and leave, but he can’t. 

Not yet. 

\---

The break room isn’t actually a break room. It’s mostly a storage space with a sad, small chair and a table jammed into the corner by the exterior wall. The longer Andrew sits there, amongst the cardboard boxes of coffee filters and biodegradable straws and sugar packets, the more frozen he feels as the chill of winter seeps in through the cinderblock wall behind him. 

It isn’t until he pulls his phone out of his pocket that he realizes his leather jacket is hanging from the coat hook on the wall.

Not his jacket, actually - it’s Neil’s jacket. Neil’s-jacket-that-used-to-be-Andrew’s-jacket. Sort-of-Andrew’s-jacket-but-not-really-anymore-because-he-gave-it-to-Neil-but-definitely-not-in-a-gift-kind-of-way.

He gets up to inspect it, running his fingers over the familiar leather. Renee’s rainbow pin is still attached to the sleeve cuff where Andrew had left it. When he sniffs the collar, it smells like Neil and coffee and cinnamon.

Of course Neil has to push the door open at that exact moment, a bemused look on his face as they lock eyes. Andrew steps away from the jacket. 

“You didn’t leave,” Neil says, as though he thought there was a possibility Andrew would sneak out the back. 

“Not yet,” Andrew says, just to make it clear that the option is still there.

“So let’s talk,” Neil says, motioning for Andrew to sit down. There’s only one chair, so when Andrew sits, Neil hops up onto the table itself and lets his feet dangle over the edge.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Andrew says.

“Then I’ll talk, since you think I’m so good at that,” Neil says with the barest hint of a smile; Andrew isn’t amused. “So far, I know jack shit about your family, other than the fact that Nicky is your cousin. And he’s dating Erik, who lives in Stuttgart. And you have a brother - a twin. Aaron. In Chicago. And you spent time in foster care.” 

Neil pauses, giving Andrew room to correct him, but he’s on track so Andrew lets him continue.

“You’re mad at them because they left after …?” Neil lets his sentence trail off into a question, his feet swinging as he talks. 

“Graduation,” Andrew says, putting a hand on Neil’s knee to stop him from fidgeting. “And you’re forgetting Katelyn.” 

“Your ex?” Neil asks with the most shit-eating grin Andrew has ever seen from him. 

If this is the ridicule Andrew is going to have to endure from Neil before the brat even belongs to him, he should cut his losses, take back his jacket, and leave. Immediately. “You’re delusional.”

“Not delusional,” Neil says airily. “Just difficult. I wasn’t forgetting her, don’t worry. Nicky already said Katelyn belongs to Aaron. I just wanted to see if you really hated her as much as he said you did. So you’re pissed off because they all got on with their lives while you stuck around here doing … what, exactly?”

Andrew mentally canvasses all of their previous conversations, slowly realizing that he and Neil have never had this talk before, either. He doesn’t like to go into the details of his personal life with his subs, so he didn’t think it was strange to keep Neil at an arm’s distance at first. But it’s left a space between them, both physically and mentally, big enough to send a wave of distress curling up Andrew’s spine. He doesn’t know how to bridge this gap even if he wanted to. 

As soon as Andrew takes his hand off of Neil's knee, he starts swinging his legs again from his perch on the table, every time coming dangerously close to tapping his dirty sneakers against Andrew’s knee, but never making contact. Andrew watches him for several seconds before finally reaching out and grabbing Neil’s ankle this time to stop him. 

Neil still has that shit-eating grin on his face, and Andrew can’t help himself. He wraps his hand around Neil’s ankle, massaging his thumb against the sliver of skin where Neil’s sock ends and his jeans begin.

He supposes this is as good a place as any to begin. 

“Work,” he grits out, as if admitting anything more specific will burn him alive from the inside out. 

“You work,” Neil repeats, as if that's a novel concept.

“And I go to Eden’s.” It’s a safe answer, safer than explaining why he doesn’t have any other hobbies, any other friends, any other interests. 

“And you go to Eden’s,” Neil repeats.

Andrew squeezes Neil’s ankle. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” Neil asks, batting his eyelashes innocently at Andrew.

Already dangerously close to being fed up, Andrew shoves Neil’s foot away. “Being a brat. Repeating what I say.”

“You’re impossible, you know,” Neil tells him, but he doesn’t push for more details than Andrew is willing to give. “So you work and you go to Eden’s and you hole yourself up in your apartment, and you wonder why Nicky left to go live with his boyfriend in Germany. You wonder why Aaron left to go to med school in Chicago with Katelyn, as though it’s some big mystery why no one stays in South Carolina -”

“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about my family -”

“You’re not happy,” Neil announces, like it’s a fact. 

Like it isn’t obvious, like that word isn’t another knife in Andrew’s back. 

The only reason Andrew hasn’t left yet is because Neil says that word the same way Andrew used to say it, with enough derision to make it an insult instead of a fantasy or a moral shortcoming.

_Happy._

It’s venomous on Neil’s tongue, as though he’s repeating what countless others have told him, and Andrew envisions a younger Neil being told by his soon-to-be-dead mother _you’re not_ **_happy,_ ** _Neil._

Except he doesn’t know if Neil’s mother ever called him by that name, or if he was always some else to her. Nathaniel, or Alex, or Stefan, or any of Neil’s other fake names. 

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Andrew deadpans, not bothering to look at Neil. He doesn’t want to see Neil’s stupid face, the stupid inquisitive twist to his mouth that he gets when he’s frustrated, the stupid frown that deepens across his forehead when he’s thinking too hard. 

“You don’t have to be happy to be _happier,”_ Neil says. “You could still be miserable. And you could be happier. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

And that one sentence makes Andrew hate him even more, because Neil is right in the worst fucking way possible. It would be one thing if Neil said _you could be happy,_ or _you should be happy,_ because Andrew could discount every stupid word coming out of this mouth. But he said _you could be happier,_ which implies that Andrew exists on a spectrum of emotion instead of being trapped within a dichotomy. He doesn’t have to pick between misery and contentment, depression and joy. 

_You could be happier_ is an invitation for Andrew to say _I could be,_ and the allowance for him to say _but I won’t._

He’d be much _happier_ if he was fucking done with this conversation and Nicky was already back in Stuttgart or Chicago or anywhere that’s not within a thousand miles of this place. He doesn’t want to think about whether happier means the same thing as happy because he knows it doesn’t, but the words are still too similar for him to take comfort in them. 

His headache from earlier hasn’t faded, and he’s starting to wonder if the universe has it out for him. 

“Do you think I’d be living in South Carolina if I wanted to be _happier?”_ Andrew asks. His voice is edged with the quietest kind of violence, the kind that slips in unnoticed, the kind that he usually twists inwards to prevent this kind of destruction. 

The kind that Neil is quickly becoming an expert at provoking. 

“I think you’d be the same anywhere else,” Neil says. “I don’t think South Carolina deserves to be blamed for this.” 

“Blamed for _what?”_ Andrew asks, daring Neil to say it. 

For being depressed. For being exhausted. For being traumatized. For waiting until there were more scars than skin before being forced into the decision to stay. For resigning himself to a life that’s safe - a life that doesn’t expect anything from him, that he doesn’t expect anything from. 

For not even trying when it comes to Neil and everything he represents.

For giving up, day after day after day.

Neil doesn’t say any of that, though. “For being fucked up.”

“What a wordsmith you are,” Andrew quips bitterly. Coming from anyone else, Andrew wouldn’t still be sitting here. But Neil says _fucked up_ like it’s part of a royal ‘we’, and the way Neil touches his own scarred cheek before looking up at Andrew somehow dulls the sting of those words. 

“That’s what you think about yourself, right? You think you’re too fucked up to let Nicky back in. And you won’t let Aaron try to make up for what he did because you think you’re too fucked up to be worth fighting for. You still think you’re going to fuck things up with me, but let’s be real: if anyone’s going to fuck this up, it’s going to be me.”

Neil says that as though he's already holding a grenade in one hand and the pin in the other. He hops down from the table, pulls the leather jacket off of the hook and pops the collar obnoxiously as he slips into it. 

“You let the Son of the Butcher get too close to you, Andrew. You don’t get to be surprised when you end up with a knife pressed between your ribs. I’m not going to make you talk to Nicky, but I’m only going to say this once.”

Neil steps forwards, until he’s standing between Andrew’s knees, and he stares down at Andrew’s face. He stuffs his fists into his pockets, as though he can win this with nothing but words. 

As though he’s already won.

“Jean would’ve gladly told you this years ago, but you only keep him close enough to have leverage when you need to push him away. And fuck knows why you let me in, because I’m a liar and a brat and a pain in your ass, but people like us don’t get _happy._ We don’t get quiet lives in Stuttgart, or residencies with prestigious hospitals in Chicago. We get fucked over, again and again and again, unless we find something worth fighting for. So enlighten me, Andrew, before I waste my time any more than I already have: are you worth fighting for?”

There’s a paradigm shift when Neil stares down at him. Like Andrew is nothing and everything all at once, like he’s powerless and powerful. Worthy and worthless. 

If Andrew closes his eyes, it almost feels like he’s wearing that goddamned blue collar for the first time. He can feel hands around his neck as he lets his first Dom touch him, fingers pressing into the softest parts of his throat until oxygen is sparse enough to make his head spin. 

He wants that back. 

He wants that with Neil. 

He knows that he won’t get that, because he knows he’s _not_ worth fighting for - they both know that, actually. Neil doesn’t ask questions that he doesn’t already know the answers to. 

And Andrew hates Neil for making him say it out loud.

“Fuck you,” Andrew says.

Neil isn’t phased. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I can’t tell you what’s worth fighting for.” He skirts around the actual answer that sits raw and open between them, and he stares up at Neil. “What you choose to waste your energy on is none of my concern.”

Neil watches Andrew cautiously, like he’s considering his options. 

Andrew has known from the start that Neil would never last, and it’s only due to Neil’s stubbornness that they’ve made it this far. If Neil had a few more IQ points, they would’ve probably never even ended up here in the first place. Realistically, it’s only a matter of time before Neil gets bored of this same sad song and dance.

Neil stares down at Andrew with an intensity Andrew hasn’t seen from him before. “You aren’t a waste of energy.”

“Your judgement is notoriously terrible,” Andrew says before he realizes that he doesn’t need to take this sitting down. He stands up, and all of a sudden they’re on eye level. Neither of them backs down from the closeness, letting the precious few inches that separate their bodies act as a barrier. 

“My judgement is better than yours," Neil retorts.

And with that, Andrew is done talking about this. He wants to forget about Nicky, who’s presumably still waiting at the table by the window with Erik. He wants to forget every sentence Neil has said to him over the past hour. He wants to go to Eden’s and lose himself in the only way he knows how, with skin and pain and pleasure all mixed up together. 

But more than chasing that escape, he wants to prove to Neil that he’s worth fighting for.

He’s not used to that feeling, and he knows it would be easier to kill it now, before it sparks something inside of his tinderbox of a heart and sets his entire world on fire.

Neil, of course, won’t even let Andrew’s emotions die in peace; he’s not done speaking yet.

“Are you going to ask me to stay? Because I’m not going to lie to you - you know me better than that. Nothing lasts forever. Especially not this.” 

Andrew glares at him. “Forever is a dream for the simpleminded.” 

“That didn’t stop you from expecting it from Nicky and Aaron.” 

Andrew wants to tell Neil that he’s wrong, but there’s too much truth there to deny it. He didn’t _expect_ forever from Nicky and Aaron, but that’s what they promised him. That’s what they said _family_ meant. That's what _always_ meant. 

“I never asked for that,” Andrew says. 

“But you believed them. When they didn’t leave - when they stayed for months and then years - you let yourself start to imagine what life would be like if that was the truth. If forever wasn't a lie.”

They’re not the kind of people to dance around a painful subject, but Andrew wishes they were. He wishes they could pretend that this conversation didn’t have to happen. After the fake names and fake birthdays and half-truths, he wishes that Neil could lie to him about this one thing. 

“You won’t ask me to be your sub because that means you’re asking me to stay, and you know that’s not fair,” Neil continues. “Just like you knew it wasn’t fair to ask Nicky and Aaron to stay.”

Neil reaches out as though he’s going to grab Andrew’s wrist, but he doesn’t. He tugs on Andrew’s sleeve instead, a sad shadow of a smile on his face. 

Andrew thinks of Neil saying _I want to be yours,_ and he hears himself reply _mine?_ He thinks of Neil saying _I’m not afraid,_ and he thinks of his response: _you could do better._ He thinks of his knife in Neil’s hands as Neil says _you want to see my destruction? Do it yourself._ He thinks of Neil saying _eventually, I gave up._ He thinks of Neil’s voice caressing the word _princess,_ and then _I already own you._ He thinks of his own nightmares and he thinks of Bakersfield and he thinks of the way he could almost taste hope in Neil’s tears when they were in Jean’s backyard.

He thinks of _happier._

Andrew hates this. He wants to reach out and put Neil’s hand around his throat. He wants Neil to touch him, to fuck him, to mark him and break him, because Andrew already feels like he has nothing left to give. The thought is destructive, because he knows that isn’t actual desire speaking. It’s desperation and hopelessness wrapped in a voice that says he needs to be punished for wanting more than a few scenes at Eden’s. 

_You could be happier._

Neil was right about that. Andrew _could_ be happier, but he won’t be. Not like this. 

“I can’t give away time like everyone else,” Neil says, twisting Andrew’s sleeve in his fingers as he speaks. “Whatever time I have left - days, weeks, months, years - it’s all borrowed. There’s an expiration date on Neil Josten, just like there was an expiration date on Nathaniel Wesninski. Maybe I’ll be someone else by this time next year. Maybe I won’t - maybe I’ll still be here, making the same mistakes I’m making now. You think that leaving is the worst thing someone can do, you think that _stay_ means tethering yourself to someone like an anchor, like dead weight dragging them down. That’s not how this works. There are other ways - other ways to survive.” 

Neil’s words are barely audible by the end.

Andrew remembers the question that he asked Neil in Jean’s backyard, and it comes out before he can stop himself.

“You want the truth?”

The first time Andrew asked this, Neil had said _I want more than the truth,_ but tonight, Neil shakes his head. 

“Not if it hurts you.” 

And fuck Neil Josten for thinking that he’s allowed to say things like that. 

“When someone hurts you -” Andrew says, but then stops. 

Neil touches his collar again, and Andrew catalogues the insecurity there. He takes a moment to breathe because he’s waiting for this to hurt. He’s waiting for the monster inside of him to wake up, an angry, defensive thing that feeds on violence and pain and destruction. But nothing happens. 

He stares at Neil, and feels nothing. 

Sometimes the retelling is difficult, as though he can’t control the words coming out of his mouth. He hates that even now, his story isn’t exactly his own.

 _It is,_ Bee has told him a hundred times. _It’s still your story. Still your words, your experiences, your life._ She’s always talking about radical acceptance and non-judgmental mindfulness with him. Which sounds like bullshit at first, but it isn’t about agreeing with what happened. It’s about stopping the pain from turning into something larger than he can handle, something that swallows him whole. It’s allowing himself to feel everything and nothing without judgement.

Other than Bee, he’s never told anyone about the pain he lives with. 

Neil silently waits for Andrew to finish the sentence he left hanging between them. 

Andrew doesn’t want to fight with himself anymore, about Neil and all of his own vulnerabilities and memories and nightmares. He’s accumulated a lifetime’s worth of anger and he should be letting it go, but he can’t, so he starts again, determined.

“When someone hurts you,” Andrew repeats, staring down at his sleeve where Neil’s fingers are still holding on tightly. “When someone hurts you -”

 _God,_ he can’t fucking say it. 

He’s supposed to give himself permission to feel anger. Permission to feel hurt. To be afraid or bored or depressed, without letting those emotions control his actions. And if he wants to, if in some distant future he’s somehow ready to do so, he can give himself permission to be more than all of that. Permission to be _happier,_ if he’s going to use Neil’s words, but even the ghost of that word feels like poison right now. 

It shouldn’t, but it does.

 _That’s the whole point,_ Bee had told him. _None of your emotions can change what happened - not the anger, not the resentment, not the jealousy. They affect your present, and your future, but not your past._

And that’s what Andrew is stuck on. With Nicky and Aaron, he let too much of his past in. Not because he told them about his past, but because he couldn’t tell them a goddamned thing about it. He thought he was escaping from that darkness by refusing to acknowledge it. By keeping everyone else at a distance, he thought he was building up defenses to keep himself safe. 

By the time he realized he’d actually been building up walls that locked everyone else out, it was too late. It was just him and his nightmares, alone with a new kind of darkness of his own creation.

He can’t say any of that now, though. The words keep getting stuck in his throat, so he gives up. 

Neil seems to accept that, letting go of Andrew’s sleeve as he takes a step back so there’s room to breathe again between them. Then he pulls down his own shirt collar, exposing his scarred chest. There’s a crosshatch of white lines over his neck, his heart, his sternum. Burns litter the spaces in between, as though whoever hurt him couldn’t leave any skin untouched. (Andrew knows what that's like.) Most are faded enough to lay flat against his skin, but some are deeper, wider, and others are raised and pale pink, from a more recent time. 

“When someone hurts you,” Neil says for him, and he takes Andrew’s hand and presses it to the bare skin over his heart, right on top of a keloid scar in the lopsided shape of an _L._ “You never forget that pain. No matter how long it’s been.”

Andrew feels Neil’s heartbeat through the healed skin, and the friction of his palm against Neil’s chest is a salve to the burning in his throat. He’s seen glimpses of Neil’s scars before in passing, but he’s never touched them like this.

“Nicky was supposed to be different,” Andrew says as he lets his fingers drift across Neil’s scars, finding hidden letters and shapes in the patchwork of skin. When Andrew doesn’t elaborate, Neil tilts his head, thinking. Andrew wishes he’d stop doing that.

“My father tried to kill me,” Neil says as Andrew traces a burn scar along Neil’s neck. “More than once, actually. These scars are my only inheritance - he took everything else. My name, my childhood, my mother. She always said that the only way I’d make it past eighteen was if he was dead, and she was right. He died trying to kill me, but I was almost dead when my uncle shot him. I should have died.”

Andrew lets his hand drift towards Neil’s jaw, a silent question in his eyes as he waits for Neil to finish. 

“I wanted to,” Neil says. “It hurt too much, and I still remember staring up at the basement ceiling and praying that it would be the last thing I saw. I didn’t want to have to open my eyes again, to face the pain that my father had left me with. I’d won, but at what cost? My mother was dead. The FBI took most of his assets during their investigation and left me with nothing.” 

Neil overlays his hand on top of Andrew’s. 

Andrew looks at their hands and feels Neil’s heartbeat pick up slightly underneath his palm. He recognizes the slow creep of darkness settling over Neil’s face, sees an entire lifetime’s worth of misery already balanced atop Neil’s shoulders, bird-like, ready for flight when its host collapses. That’s the cruelty of this kind of exchange; he watches Neil’s demons settle around them, a heavy hand curling around the back of Neil’s neck, a wreath of bruises across Andrew’s knuckles. There-and-gone in the blink of an eye.

There are no _troubles halved_ here. Each trouble shared is a trouble multiplied, a mitosis of decay that will, inevitably, rot their minds slowly from the inside out. If this is a game of numbers, Andrew and Neil will always lose, because there is no cure for this contagious kind of darkness. 

Nothing will make this hurt less. 

He keeps his palm pressed flat against the scars along Neil’s neck and shuts his eyes. The air feels heavy. He can’t ignore the way his stomach bottoms out around his ankles. 

This is what falling feels like. 

This is what it feels like to let go.

He could convince himself - like this, eyes shut, sheltered within a cocoon of his own creation - that he’s safe for a while. He has someone to hold onto, someone who can anchor him against the ebb and flow of the storm inside his soul. His entire existence condenses into the way Neil’s hand wraps around his wrist, an unspoken command for Andrew to keep his hand in place. But he lets go, and curls his fingers against the hem of Neil’s shirt until it’s fisted in his grip, and then his entire body curls inwards, a pinpoint of gravity somewhere underneath his ribcage making it impossible to breathe. 

“Andrew,” Neil says.

Andrew opens his eyes. His fingers are still white-knuckled in the fabric of Neil’s shirt, and his hands are shaking. 

“Breathe,” Neil tells him. 

It’s a cruel reversal that Andrew needs to be reminded of the fundamentals of living. But he breathes when Neil tells him to, because he’d do just about goddamned anything for the man standing in front of him. 

But not everything.

He steps back from Neil, wipes his hands on his jeans, and then does it again when they still feel unclean. 

The space between them helps to clear his head, and Andrew takes another step back. Clearer. Another step, and another, until it feels like he’s not drowning anymore. 

Neil’s expression of concern slips for a moment, a flash of panic behind his eyes that’s there-and-gone before Andrew blinks. Neil’s hands end up in his pockets again, balled up in fists that Andrew wants to dare him to use. 

“Don’t fight for me,” Andrew says quietly. 

Neil ignores that declaration. “Nicky didn’t hurt you,” he guesses instead, and Andrew pauses before nodding. 

Neil’s face has a sick cast to it.

“The only thing Nicky did was rip open an old wound,” Andrew says, his voice devoid of emotion. He can’t feel anything if they’re going to talk about this. “The only thing he’s guilty of is carelessness, but why would he be careful?” 

This time, he puts the question mark in the right place even though it’s not a question. He can’t hold onto any of this anymore. He’s had enough of this song and dance, and Neil’s patience is wearing him thin. 

“Ask me who hurt me,” Andrew demands, but Neil shakes his head. 

Andrew takes a step forward and he knows his face is a defensive mask right now, as blank as the night sky. He focuses on Neil’s frown, anything to avoid the precipice of an empty chasm inside of his ribcage. 

Before Neil can take a breath, Andrew answers his own question.

“I wasn’t just _in_ foster care for a while. It’s where I grew up. Twelve houses, not a single home. Once - maybe - but none of that makes a difference now. It’s where I learned how cruel people can be. It’s where I learned to survive by any means possible.”

_It’s where I learned to beg._

“And you think that means you aren’t worth fighting for?” Neil asks furiously. He balls up his apron and throws it to the floor. “News flash: people can do fucked up things without being fucked up. Don’t fucking interrupt - I don’t mean the people who hurt you back then - I mean Nicky. I mean me, because I’m not perfect. My life is a fucking mess, and I can’t give you the things your other subs gave you. Eventually -” Neil pulls on the collar around his neck “- this won’t be enough for you, or me, and that’s fine.” 

Neil doesn’t move closer as he speaks, but the distance between them is what makes Andrew’s skin crawl. 

“You want to talk about hurt?” Neil says. “Here’s the truth: I’m going to leave someday. One morning, you’re going to wake up and it’ll be like I never existed at all. And how’s that for fucked up? Because you’ll move on. You’ll get over the sub you once knew, the one with a bitchy attitude and a loud mouth, until I’m nothing but a memory that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. That’s why you need them.”

Neil gestures wildly towards where Nicky and Erik are probably still waiting in the front of the café. His mouth twists shut as he realizes what he just said two seconds too late. Andrew stares at him, waiting for any of this to make sense. He can’t keep track of it all, feels the logic slipping through his fingers. 

“Why?” Andrew asks.

Neil shakes his head, like he knows the words are going to slice him open on their way out. 

“Why do you care?” Andrew asks again, stepping forward. Neil backs into the wall, rests his head against the concrete as Andrew moves closer to extricate whatever truth Neil has left to give. He puts one hand on Neil’s chin, and their faces are close enough now that Andrew can see the individual pores across Neil’s nose. 

Neil only grits his teeth in response. “I don’t.” 

“Liar,” Andrew whispers against his cheek, and Neil shudders. “You’re terrified of being forgotten. That’s why you care.” He lets go of Neil’s jaw but stays close enough that he could press his nose into the curve of Neil’s neck if he wanted to, and his voice comes out as a low rumble. “Take your pity elsewhere. I don’t need you trying to fix my family because you haven’t dealt with your own insecurities.” 

Neil freezes, narrowing his eyes at Andrew as he says, “So they _are_ your family.” 

A slow grin spreads across Neil’s face, and Andrew wants to remind him who’s in charge here, but the longer they stand in silence, the more uncertain he becomes that he knows who that is. 

“You were wrong about one thing,” Neil says, and he turns his face until his cheek is almost pressed against Andrew’s, not shying away from their closeness. “I’m not terrified of being forgotten. I’m terrified you won’t forget. So let’s do this for real.” Neil pulls on his collar, snapping it against his neck. “Let’s make a deal: neither of us gets to expect forever out of this. When either of us say it’s over, it’s over. And when I leave, you promise to forget me.” 

Andrew doesn’t know how the fuck Neil thinks that’s a deal he would want. It sounds like a lose-lose situation, but a lifetime of cruelty has already accustomed him to that. At the very least, if he accepts, he gets Neil for a while. He knows this is a bad idea, but he can’t help himself. Not when Neil is intoxicatingly close and infuriatingly right; he knows Neil can’t offer him more than this. 

“If we do this, it’s on my terms,” Andrew murmurs, his gaze steady on Neil’s lips to avoid looking him in the eye. “Not yours.”

“Fine,” Neil agrees easily, and Andrew feels the power of that promise reverberating in his bones. “What else?” 

Andrew pulls his keys out, slips them into Neil’s back pocket and leaves his hand there momentarily. “You wait in the car while I deal with them. Then we talk.” 

Neil grins wider as he slips under Andrew’s arm and makes his way towards the door. “Just so you know, Nicky invited us to dinner on the 23rd.” 

And like that, Andrew’s headache is back. “We are not going to dinner with my cousin -”

“You know, I would’ve agreed with you an hour ago, but Nicky said he has a lot more pictures. Plus it’s free food, and I don’t have any better plans this week.” 

Andrew stares at Neil. He must’ve been delusional to think they’re even remotely on the same wavelength, because there is nothing he wants less than to deal with Nicky and Neil and Erik together. 

“Then again,” Neil says, innocently touching his neck. “I _am_ already wearing your collar. You could just tell me to stay home. I’d be inclined to obey if you agree to make it worth my while.” 

Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose. Nicky is impossible. And Neil is, impossibly, more impossible than Nicky. 

This is a bad idea. 

“You’re not my problem right now,” Andrew says. 

Neil perks up as soon as he hears that, and Andrew is honestly impressed. They’re not technically in a scene right now, he’s not sure if he can actually call himself Neil’s Dom (or if he wants to yet), but he can’t handle Neil pushing him right now. He needs to focus on surviving the conversation he’s about to have with Nicky before he can deal with Neil. He half-expected that Neil wouldn’t remember their safeword for bratting - _not my problem -_ but the fact that Neil does makes Andrew proud, in a weird way. 

Right up until Neil frowns at him and adds defensively, “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Neil,” Andrew warns him. “Let me deal with them.” 

Neil looks unimpressed but mutters his agreement, and Andrew follows him back into the heart of Jim Bean’s, where things immediately go from bad to worse. 

Andrew had been hoping that by giving Neil the keys to the Maserati in the breakroom, Nicky wouldn’t realize who Neil is to Andrew. Mostly because Andrew has no idea who Neil is to him, but that’s besides the point. 

But as soon as Neil is in front of Nicky's table, he stops and fishes Andrew’s keys out of his back pocket and points them at the window, clicking twice until the alarm chirps and the lights flash. Even though Andrew has parked in the back of the lot, Nicky’s eyes immediately dart from Neil to the Mas and back again. 

And then, when Neil opens his mouth, Andrew barely manages to hide the shock on his face.

 _“Keep my pretty little name out of this,”_ Neil says to Nicky in German, flashing his teeth in a smile that looks more vicious than pleasant. He walks his fingers playfully across the table. _“And if you threaten him, I will find your hotel and make you regret ever coming back here. Whatever he decides is final. And since we might not be talking again after this, you should probably lose my number.”_

Erik pales slightly, and Nicky frowns at Andrew. Neil doesn't wait for a response before heading outside.

As soon as he's gone, Nicky’s glare deepens. “Does your _boyfriend_ not know you speak German?” 

“Why would he know that? He's an acquaintance,” Andrew says with a glare of his own. “I’m curious, though: what did you say to him to elicit such a fascinating response?”

“Can we just start over?” Nicky asks, laughing nervously. “He clearly wants to be left out of this discussion, and I’m inclined to agree at this point.” 

“Who gave you his number?” Andrew asks, even though he already knows the answer. Still, he wants to know for certain which one of the traitors back at Eden's told Nicky about Neil, and he stays standing in front of their table, wanting to keep this as short as possible. 

“Roland,” Nicky says. 

If it weren’t for Neil and December and the dull ache in Andrew’s bones, the feeling of disappointed indifference would have made this conversation easier. But right now, staring at the grey cast over Nicky’s face, Andrew feels a tug somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Andrew isn’t used to thinking of his family as _family_ anymore, but he feels like telling the entire world they're all on thin fucking ice right now. 

A lot can change in two-and-a-half years, but some things will forever stay the same.

“I want to fix things between us,” Nicky says. 

Like that - Nicky's the same as always, trying to fix messes that Andrew doesn't want fixed.

“There’s nothing to fix,” Andrew says.

Nicky looks crestfallen, predictably. He plays with his cup, staring at his hands while Andrew tries to figure out how he can end this quicker.

Andrew’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he checks it: a text from Neil. He’s torn between ignoring it because Neil is incessant, and answering it because Nicky is insufferable. 

When he opens the text, his decision is made for him. 

_precocious: I’m getting bored out here_

It’s followed two seconds later by another, and another, and another.

_precocious: andrew_

_precocious: andrew_

_precocious: andrew_

_precocious: I can see you looking at your phone. You’re supposed to be talking with Nicky. If you’re not actually going to listen to him, I could give you something better to pay attention to._

Nicky doesn’t seem to notice Andrew glancing from his phone to the front window. He doesn’t know if he wants to find out what Neil means, but he knows that Neil is going to be the fucking death of him. 

That doesn’t stop him from texting back: _I’d like to see you try._

Erik frowns at Andrew. “We’re trying here, Andrew. We flew out here to talk to you in person.” 

Andrew glares at him, but that only makes Nicky nod eagerly. 

“All we're asking for is a couple of hours. One dinner. I don’t like being estranged like this, Andrew. I’m still your cousin. I’ll _always_ be your cousin, no matter what happens. Even if you wish I were someone else, even if someone else could do it better, I'm the one you got stuck with. But that's not all bad, right? Because I don't give up. Super stubborn guy over here -"

Andrew’s phone vibrates again. 

_precocious: attached image._

It’s Neil. Or more specifically, Neil’s stomach and jeans, where his hand is laying across his crotch. It’s possibly the worst sext Andrew has ever seen. He types back a quick response: _Doesn’t look like you’re even trying._

“One dinner won’t fix us,” Andrew interrupts whatever Nicky was saying, spinning his phone in his hand.

“Then what will? Give me some credit, I’m trying to make this better. I get that you were upset when I left, but I was never going to stay here forever. You knew that - you knew about Erik from the start. You knew I flew back from Germany as soon as I heard about you and Aaron but -”

"Don't hold me accountable for decisions that I didn't ask you to make," Andrew interrupts him. And then his phone buzzes, another photo from Neil. He glances at it, his expression nothing but practiced boredom as Nicky drawls on about family.

Neil’s chin is barely visible in this one, but he’s got his lip caught between his teeth and his shirt is pulled up to reveal his stomach, the zipper now pulled down on his jeans. There’s a patch of hair barely visible, underneath his fingers, but nothing scandalous yet.

 _Warmer,_ Andrew texts back. 

“What about Neil?” Erik asks. “You can bring your _acquaintance_ with.” 

Another picture pops up, this one finally featuring Neil’s hand wrapped loosely around his cock. 

_If you get arrested for public indecency, I'm not coming to bail you out,_ Andrew sends back.

“He’s nothing to me,” Andrew says. 

“He didn't look like nothing,” Nicky says, and when Andrew glares at him, Nicky quickly backtracks. “But I’m sure whoever he is, he’d love to meet us. Properly, I mean.” 

“If that little exchange is anything to go by, he didn’t have a particularly enlightening experience the first time. And he doesn't do _proper_ \- he won't want to sit around a little restaurant and try amuse-bouches with you and Erik for four hours.” 

Andrew’s phone is quiet now, with no further comment from Neil. Andrew feels a flush creeping up his face as he realizes that Neil is probably not texting back because he’s touching himself. In Andrew’s car. Not a hundred feet from the entrance to a very public business. Where Neil is an employee.

Nicky sighs. “It's just one dinner. That’s all I’m asking for. A lot has happened since I last saw you, and I want -”

Andrew’s phone lights up with a message, not a picture. 

_precocious: thinking about you._

“Neil said to lose his number,” Andrew says. “I suggest you follow that advice.” 

Nicky rolls his eyes, but holds back his protests when Andrew glares at him. 

“Fine,” Nicky agrees. “I’ll delete it. But the 23rd would give you a couple of days to talk about it -”

Andrew’s phone lights up, and it’s a photo of Neil’s hand. More specifically, it’s a photo of his own come dripping down the length of his index finger as it catches on the tip of his tongue, followed by a simple message. 

_precocious: wish you were here._

“I have to go,” Andrew says abruptly. 

“That’s a yes?” Nicky asks hopefully. “One dinner and we call it even?” 

Andrew doesn’t know what he’s about to agree to, but he really needs to leave. _Now._ It’s against his better judgement, against every cell in his body screaming at him to ignore Nicky until he leaves again so he can live the next decade of his life in peace, alone. But he thinks of Neil telling him he’s worth fighting for and wonders if this is Nicky’s way of fighting. 

Nicky is looking at Andrew with those same eager eyes as he did six years ago when they first met, and the words he said then echo in Andrew's mind: _I’ll always be there for you._

At least this time, Andrew knows it’s a lie. 

“Fine,” Andrew says, already knowing it this is going to be a massive mistake. “I’ll come.”

“And Neil?” 

Andrew is going to hate himself for this. “I don’t make decisions for him.”

Erik has a smug smile on his face, and Nicky is beaming when he adds, “But you’ll ask him?” 

“You talked to him for five minutes and you're already on his shit list,” Andrew snaps. “If you want me to ask him, that's your own damn funeral.”

He heads outside, and the last thing he hears is Erik’s quiet, _we talked to him for_ _more than five minutes, Minyard,_ muttered in German, right before the door slams shut. 

Disappointingly, by the time Andrew gets to the Maserati, Neil is staring out the passenger window with a bored expression as though nothing happened, completely clothed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have literally no idea what i just wrote. if this was not what y'all wanted to read, we can pretend like this chapter never happened. erase it from our collective memories and carry on. this was also (i think??) the longest chapter so far, so apologies for that. my intent was like 6-8k words max, i swear.
> 
> anyways, hope you're all healthy, safe, sane, etc *peace sign emoji x 12 to express the decay of winter that's already taken over my mind* 
> 
> as usual i'm arbitrarily picking a date for next chapter based on how fast I think i'll be able to write. so let's go with dec 6th-ish, but by this point i think that is basically a guarantee it will be on literally any other day that dec 6th???


	15. A Hazy Shade of Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title credit to the gerard way cover)
> 
> this picks up right before the last chapter left off (lazy writing, i'm very very sorry). 
> 
> WARNINGS/TAGS: Neil thinks about Andrew while jerking off in the Mas. They pull their heads out of their asses a little bit. Re-re-renegotiation of limits.

Neil’s intention was never to make Andrew’s family situation more difficult. Not that he’s complicated anything, exactly; things were plenty complicated to begin with. 

But he has a sinking feeling that despite his very best efforts, he’s going to have to explain why Nicky might not be inviting them to a wedding in Stuttgart anytime soon. Then again, Nicky hadn’t seemed intimidated by any of Neil’s threats, so maybe there really isn’t cause for alarm. And Andrew probably wouldn’t want to go to a stupid wedding anyway. 

In his own defense, no one warned Neil about Nicky. _No one._ Therefore Neil can’t really be blamed for what happened. 

Again, that’s assuming they’re looking for someone to blame. 

After all, if he had known who Nicky was in the first place - if he’d seen a picture or, hell, if anyone had just told him that Nicky spoke German - then things would (probably) not have spiraled out of control. 

Not that things are out of control. They’re very in-control. Nicky agreed not to mention anything to Andrew after a little convincing - actual convincing, with words (not threats) to be clear. _No harm, no foul, right?_ Those were Nicky’s exact words. And it’s not like Andrew is a stranger to Neil’s particular brand of standoffishness, so even if things _had_ escalated - which they didn’t, but if they had - then Andrew would probably be fine with it. Especially since Nicky doesn’t seem to be his favorite cousin. (God, Neil hopes Nicky isn’t Andrew’s _only_ cousin).

So really, when Neil thinks about it, it isn’t that big of a deal that he threatened to disembowel Nicky in the alley behind Jim Bean’s. Keyword _threatened,_ meaning it didn’t actually happen. And technically speaking, Neil could threaten to disembowel anyone at any given time, so it’s not like he singled Nicky out or anything. He just hopes Andrew doesn’t take that the wrong way, because Neil really can’t reiterate this enough: if he had known who Nicky was, he would’ve kept his threats to himself. 

(Probably).

But despite getting off on the wrong foot, Nicky had still invited Neil to come to the Hemmick-Minyard(-Josten?) family dinner on the 23rd. Nicky was even bold enough to order snowmen lattes from Neil and ask at least a half-dozen pointless questions about the food at Jim Bean’s, as though Neil threatening him was barely a blip on his radar. 

So Neil is fine. They’re all fine. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to ascertain if he actually believes that yet. Sitting alone in the front seat of the Maserati while Andrew talks to Nicky inside is making him fidgety. He had a chance to explain to Andrew what happened with Nicky’s less-than-orthodox introduction back in the break room, but Andrew had been unfairly distracting by (maybe) agreeing to take things further with Neil. 

But Neil is trying not to think too hard about that right now. It’s not like Andrew is going to come outside and fuck him in the back seat of the Mas, so it would be safest for Neil to shut down his current train of thought. Except Andrew has put his hands on Neil so infrequently that any skin-to-skin contact leaves Neil in a daze, which is probably why he ends up texting Andrew.

As soon as he sends the first message, he relaxes into the familiarity of the Maserati and the way it smells like leather and pine air freshener and smoke and Andrew. 

But one text isn’t enough to fend off thoughts of Andrew’s hands going places they’ve never gone before. And ever since Andrew gave him the collar, Neil has been discovering Andrew’s limits, becoming intimate with his boundaries. He isn’t yet used to the weight of hands on his chest or the taste of fingers his mouth, but he wants to be. 

He’s getting bolder. Confidence looks nice on him, he thinks. And good taste is overrated, which is why he takes the first picture. 

If Neil did things in good taste, after all, he wouldn’t have threatened Nicky within an inch of his life. He wouldn’t have made the bet about Eden’s with Kevin. He wouldn’t have met Andrew. So for better or for worse, Neil rarely does things in good taste. He could even argue that he actively avoids doing things in good taste.

But the first picture is nothing, really. It’s barely suggestive: just his hand, his shirt, his jeans, with barely any skin showing at all. He sends it before he can second guess himself. It’s an unsubtle but quiet take-it-or-leave-it kind of invitation. _  
_

Andrew takes it. Obviously. When he texts back _I’d like to see you try,_ Neil doesn’t back down from the challenge. He takes a slightly more suggestive picture. His shirt is hitched up this time, his hand pressed against the skin of his stomach, the zipper of his jeans pulled halfway down. And - to the surprise of no one - it turns out that touching himself in the front seat of Andrew’s car is a nice distraction. 

It’s just for fun. The pictures have nothing to do with Neil wanting an insurance policy in case there’s fallout from whatever happens next between them. He’s not trying to distract Andrew from what is likely a difficult conversation with Nicky, either. And he’s definitely not trying to show Andrew what he’s missing out on. 

Although if Neil squints at his motivations for doing this, it could be a _small_ fuck you to Andrew, since Neil had been equal parts horny and confused and emotionally exhausted by the time Andrew got to Jim Bean’s. And it was unfair of Andrew to back Neil into the break room wall like he owned him, especially when Andrew knows full well how flustered Neil gets when Andrew is rough with him. (Not to mention that Andrew _does_ own Neil, even if it’s not official yet). 

When Andrew sends his next message - _doesn’t look like you’re even trying -_ Neil almost drops his phone. 

Andrew knows exactly what he’s doing. He started this back in the break room by pinning Neil in place with a rough hand against his jaw, and the brick had pressed uncomfortably into Neil’s back. The discomfort was enough to make him start to wonder what Andrew’s particular brand of pain would feel like in other contexts. Enough to pique Neil’s interests even when they had no business being piqued. He had honestly been trying to figure out how to bring up the Nicky situation, but being in such close proximity to Andrew had made it difficult for him to think of anything else. 

He also felt completely at Andrew’s mercy in that moment, and most of what he remembers of their conversation after that point is a single phrased that kept playing on a loop in his mind: _just fuck me already._

Neil has never gotten off in a car before. But he’s also never felt so painfully frustrated, and he doesn’t think he can wait until he gets home to take care of this. Knowing that Andrew is inside trying to have an adult conversation with his estranged cousin right now only fuels Neil’s desire, and he groans as he palms himself through his jeans. 

He doesn’t need to get off. He just needs a minute to remember how to breathe without thinking of how it would’ve felt if Andrew had done more than just press Neil’s back into the wall. He wants to send another innocent-enough picture, but touching himself through his clothes is a recipe for chafing, and the parking lot is empty so no one is around to see him when he sticks his hand under his waistband. No one but Andrew, who gets a front-row-seat via text. 

When Andrew texts back _warmer,_ Neil can’t help himself. Andrew wants more of him. 

Andrew _wants_ this - him, Neil.

He shuts his eyes and imagines they’re back in the break room, and hears Andrew clicking the lock shut on the door for privacy. Neil can almost feel how rough Andrew’s palms would feel tracing the curves of his ass, how the table would press into the tops of his thighs as Andrew bends him over it and pulls his jeans down. 

By this point, Neil is fully committed. It’s no longer about the pictures when he unzips his pants completely, listening to the glide of metal-on-metal in an otherwise silent car. When he licks his palm, he knows he’s taking things maybe a touch too far, but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping his spit-slicked fingers around his cock. He strokes himself slowly to the thought of brutally efficient fingers working him open only to leave him wanting and waiting, splayed out obscenely on the break room table for Andrew’s pleasure alone. 

The slow build of anticipation grows unbearable when Neil imagines Andrew replacing those fingers with something cold and slick - lube dripping from Andrew’s cock as he finally, _finally,_ fucks into Neil. Andrew sets a bruising pace in this alternate reality, picking Neil up effortlessly and pinning him against the wall as he fucks into him until the geometric pattern of the brick wall is stamped across Neil’s cheek. 

It’s all too easy for Neil to snap a few extra photos while working through his pent-up frustration, and Andrew seems willing to encourage Neil’s behavior with each reply he sends. Not to mention the fact that Andrew, being the generous benefactor to many of Neil’s recent sexual daydreams, deserves to at least see the results of his current efforts. 

Neil tries to keep his pace deliberate and controlled, not wanting to rush things, so he imagines Andrew changing pace, too. Fucking him leisurely until tears run down Neil’s face from his pent up frustration, bringing him closer to the brink until he finally asks Andrew for permission to come. Neil can't take the image of Andrew burying himself deep in Neil's ass while he rumbles his displeasure against Neil’s neck _\- what a little slut you are, asking to come already._ He's tortured by the slow glide of Andrew moving inside of him, an untamed but predictable kind of give-and-take. 

But Neil realizes that this isn’t about taking his time; Andrew is probably going to come out any minute now. And it’s not exactly a realistic fantasy, either, since Andrew doesn’t seem like the slow-fuck type. Not to mention Neil doesn’t even know if he would even enjoy being slow-fucked (he never has before, but Neil has quickly accepted that Andrew seems to be an exception). He goes back to a tried-and-true method to end this quickly, thinking about Andrew railing him within an inch of his life until he swears he can feel the final stuttering thrusts of Andrew’s hips as he comes inside of Neil. And because Neil is a masochist at heart, he imagines Andrew pulling out roughly immediately after he’s finished, before Neil even has a chance to come, leaving him filled but unsatisfied. 

It’s almost too much. If he closes his eyes, his hand could be Andrew's hand, and it feels less like a cheap facsimile of the real thing. But it’s not good enough, and he’s too empty right now to pretend that he's been fucked and filled. Even when he hears a ghost of Andrew’s growl in his ear, _come for me,_ even as he desperately tries to hold onto the image of Andrew’s come leaking out of his ass slowly, he knows none of this is actually happening. He hates the juxtaposition of fantasy and reality as he arches into his own touch, wishing desperately that Andrew was the one taking care of him right now. But they haven’t done anything remotely like this yet - fingers sticky, skin flushed, bodies warm and needy and aching for each other. 

That doesn’t stop him from finishing with a groan, painting his release across his stomach and hand as he gasps through the intensity of his orgasm. Ever since the incident with Roland, Neil has been cautious about the words that slip out of his mouth when he’s coming. He's intent on not giving Andrew the privilege of being the name that falls from his lips until all of his orgasms officially belong to Andrew, so he gulps down air until those two syllables aren’t holding him hostage. 

That doesn’t stop Neil from almost immediately picking up his phone with unsteady hands and typing out: _thinking about you._ It’s the truth, after all.

He sends it without considering the implications and slips into post-orgasmic bliss, letting his mind float for a minute. His head falls back against the headrest and shuts his eyes as he comes down from his high, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slow back into its usual rhythm. 

It isn’t until his come starts to dribble down onto the seat that the full weight of what he’s just done hits him: he just got off in the front seat of Andrew’s car, while wearing Andrew’s jacket and thinking about Andrew’s body moving inside of his own. It should be pitiful, really. He vaguely remembers a time when getting off to thoughts of Andrew made him uncomfortable, as if he were an uninvited stranger to his own fantasies. But tonight, this feels right in a way that's familiar and reassuring. There’s no guilt. No shame. No confusion.

Neil wants this.

Andrew wants this. 

They both know it won’t last forever, but Neil wants Andrew enough that he wants to try to ignore the weight of his future loss. He tells himself that he’s allowed to collect these good moments, when he feels light and safe and carefree, but they're barbed, and they scratch his hands when they slip through his fingers. 

He wonders if he’ll eventually learn how to enjoy this, if it wouldn’t be so terrible to learn how to live in the moment instead of splitting himself between a terrible past and an uncertain future. He wonders if it’s possible to learn how to hold on when all he’s been taught is how to let go. He wonders if it’s possible to have these opposing desires simultaneously, being both terrified of a nebulous forever, and desperate for it. 

He snaps the final shot of his come-stained fingers, his tongue, his smirk.

And that’s that. He clicks send and then has nothing left to do but wait for Andrew to come outside. In the meantime, he tucks himself back into his pants and does his best to clean the mess off of the seat with a fistful of napkins that he digs out of the center console. He ends up throwing them into the back seat for Andrew to deal with later, and plays with the radio until he finds something unnecessarily annoying and turns up the volume. 

After what seems like an eternity, Andrew finally comes outside and slips into the drivers’ seat. It can't have been more than a few minutes, but Neil is perfectly composed. 

At least he thinks he is.

The keys are in the ignition, but Andrew doesn’t immediately start the car. Instead, he switches the radio off and the sound of Bing Crosby cuts out into silence abruptly. 

“What did they say to you to piss you off?” Andrew asks. Neil is only a little disappointed they’re not talking about his pictures, but the tips of Andrew’s ears are red enough that Neil knows that Andrew probably hated them. _Exquisitely._

On the other hand, the fact that Andrew hasn’t immediately accused Neil of verbally threatening his cousin within an inch of his life is promising; Nicky might’ve kept his word after all. Then again, Andrew’s question is pretty vague. 

For a second, Neil is tempted to forget about Nicky and go headfirst into a detailed rehashing of how and why he just defiled the front seat of Andrew’s car. But he’s starting to realize there’s a pattern to him getting off in order to avoid his problems, and he’s not sure how healthy that is. At the very least, he needs to tell Andrew about what he said to Nicky for posterity’s sake. If they all end up going to dinner together, it could come up organically during conversation. For instance, Nicky might say _don’t sit me next to your knife-wielding boytoy, Andrew. He told you about how he was willing and able to disembowel me in a back alley, right?_

Fine. Maybe it wouldn’t come up organically. But it could still come up, and Neil doesn’t want that kind of revelation surprising Andrew. He’s trying to be honest, and if he wants honesty in return, he can’t keep this a secret.

It’s fine; he can do this. 

“They didn’t say much,” Neil says, trying to find a way to soften what he’s about to reveal. “They, um. They’re -” 

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Small talk has never come naturally to him, and he’s not about to lie and say they seemed like nice people. He kind of thinks Erik is an asshole but that’s solely based on his coffee order, so Neil is willing to admit that might not be a fair and just assessment of his actual character. 

Nicky, on the other hand, Neil has reservations about. 

But Neil isn’t thrilled to be talking about either of them while he still has the residue of his own come on his hand. Not to mention that he’s distracted by Andrew’s hands on the steering wheel right now. 

Neil licks one of his fingers clean, making an obscene popping sound with his mouth. Andrew’s eyes are dangerously cold as he stares into the middle distance, purposefully avoiding Neil’s overtly-intense eye contact. If it weren’t for the tensed muscle in Andrew’s neck, Neil would think he’s being ignored. But when he licks his finger again, Andrew abruptly twists the keys in the engine and pulls out of the lot. 

Andrew’s tree-shaped air freshener spins in frantic circles as it dangles from the rearview mirror, but they pull into traffic safely. Neil watches the way Andrew’s jaw slowly becomes more tense as the silence between them extends. 

“Now is the time that you decide to finally be quiet?” Andrew asks, veering sharply into the left lane to pass a semi truck. Belatedly, Neil realizes they’re on the highway that leads to his own apartment. 

_“You know German,”_ Andrew says. In German. Which - shit. 

Neil is surprised, to say the least. He didn’t think Andrew knew German, although he supposes Andrew was probably just as stunned to hear Neil speaking to Nicky in German.

“So do you,” Neil says dumbly in English. It’s not his wittiest comeback ever, but he’s strapped for words right now. “So you - you heard that. You knew that I - you understood that? What I said to Nicky?”

Andrew stabs the button to roll down his window and lights a cigarette, letting the wind whip away the smoke as he drives. “Care to explain what your conversation was about, or should I start guessing what you meant by _if you threaten him I’ll find your hotel and make you regret this?”_

A chill crawls up Neil’s spine. His parting words to Nicky were much tamer than this first threat, and he doesn’t know if Andrew is angry at him or Nicky or the whole situation. Probably a mixture of all three. 

But there’s something delicious about Andrew’s anger, something serpentine about his voice when it’s smooth and venomous, and Neil finds it intoxicating. It should be alarming that Neil’s already half-hard again, considering that he just finished getting off half an hour ago, but there should be a once-a-day maximum for getting off in Andrew’s car. 

It doesn’t help that he’s having a lot of Andrew-centric thoughts lately (who is he kidding - he’s been having these thoughts for a while now, he just doesn’t remember when they started exactly, or when they become so all-consuming that they became impossible to ignore). And now, re-thinking those thoughts with Andrew sitting right next to him is not making this situation any better. Neil squirms in his seat, trying to remember what he was saying before he got sidetracked. 

“You going to ignore my question all night?” Andrew asks coldly, as though he knows exactly what that tone of voice does to Neil.

Neil chews on his bottom lip. “I mean, first of all, do you have any other cousins I should know about? Just for future reference.”

The engine whines as Andrew tests the limits of the Maserati’s engineering, but he says nothing, as if he thinks Neil’s question is stupid.

It _is_ a stupid question, now that Neil thinks about it. He can’t help what comes out next, a tangle of words that makes him regret getting out of bed that morning.

“Okay. Fine. I’m going to assume that means you don’t have any other cousins. Fuck - it’s not, like, a big deal or anything. I just - sort of - threatened to disembowel him a little bit when - God, how fast does this car go? I said _threatened._ Nothing actually happened - I mean - he’s fine, I don’t even carry knives with me, unlike you -” 

“Nicky should’ve never tried to find you without talking to me first,” Andrew says, and his voice is low. Dangerous. 

If Neil didn't know better, he'd think most of that anger was directed at Nicky right now.

Andrew brings his cigarette to his lips slowly, and there’s a ghost of a frown there. Not enough that Neil could say for certain that it ever really existed, but enough that he doubts Andrew is going to punish him for this later. It would've been the perfect excuse, and Neil feels like he really earned it this time.

“Why,” Andrew says, his voice flat as the Maserati purrs under the direction of its reckless driver. It’s a command for Neil to speak, rather than a question.

He delays his answer, watching the blur of trees along the highway pass them by.

“I’d like to repeat that this isn’t _really_ my fault. In fact, a reasonable person might say I’m entirely innocent because no one told me that your cousin and his boyfriend, who speak _German,_ were in town to begin with. And - to someone of my background - they looked like hitmen. Did you see their matching black turtlenecks? I thought they were going to kill me. And they’re almost as big as Matt, so they could’ve easily dragged me into the alley without breaking a sweat -” 

Andrew flicks ash off of his cigarette but stays dead silent, which Neil takes that as an invitation to keep going. 

“Not to mention that Jim Bean’s is a local campus coffee house that’s practically buried between the library and student center, so it’s not like two 30-year-old men from Germany would just show up there on accident the week before Christmas -”

“That doesn’t tell me why you threatened them,” Andrew says in a tense voice. “What did they do to you?” 

“Like I said: nothing really. Nicky said - in German, probably because he thought I wouldn’t understand - _this has to be him, he looks just like the photo._ And Erik said _maybe we should wait until he’s done here so we can do this somewhere more private._ And Nicky said _you’re probably right. This could get messy._ I mean, who the fuck says _this could get messy_ and expects you not to assume the worst?” 

Neil might be trying to convince himself of his innocence more than he’s trying to convince Andrew, because it feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. He plants his hands on the dashboard as he leans forwards when he adds, “It was not unreasonable for me to assume that they were going to hurt me. So I told them what I would do if they tried, and Nicky _smiled_ at me. Andrew, he _smiled_ when I said I'd gut him. There’s something wrong with him.” 

“He’s used to it,” Andrew says casually. “I’m pretty sure death threats stopped meaning anything to him right around the time Aaron and I moved in with him.”

Neil frowns, taken aback. “Wait, what?” 

Andrew glances at Neil before concentrating back on the road. “Nicky shouldn't have stuck his nose in my business. He’s usually relatively harmless, but I underestimated how desperate he was to talk to me about this.” There’s a pause, where Andrew rolls his cigarette between his fingers idly for a moment. “He knows better than to pull a trick like that.”

Neil thinks that Nicky does _not_ know better, because as soon as Neil had explained how intimate Nicky’s guts were about to become with a knife, Nicky had grinned and said to Erik (far too excitedly): _yeah, he’s definitely Andrew’s Neil._

But Neil doesn’t tell Andrew about that part, because something about that moment had made Neil’s head spin, in a good way.

They pull off of the highway at Neil’s exit, and when they stop at a red light, Andrew looks more exhausted than anything else. He presses his fingertips to his forehead. 

“You still want to go to dinner with them despite all of that, don’t you?” Andrew asks without looking up.

“I already told you that they invited me,” Neil says, as if that helps anything. “I can come with. Y’know. If you want me to.”

“In what universe do you think that putting the three of you together at the same table will end any better than tonight?” 

The light changes, but Andrew doesn’t take his foot off the brake yet. 

“That’s not a no,” Neil points out. He _really_ wants to see the rest of the pictures that Nicky promised. He also knows there are parts of Andrew's past that Nicky might be able to explain, parts that Andrew doesn't see as important. 

Andrew takes a long, final drag from his cigarette before tossing it outside and rolling his window back up. Neil smooths down goosebumps on his arms. They’re from the cold, he tells himself, even as he watches Andrew shift seamlessly into first and then second gear, the Maserati accelerating obediently under his command. The act of casual competence does things to Neil that he didn’t think were possible, a choreographed dance between one foot releasing the gas and the other pressing the clutch, the rumble of the engine seamlessly turning over as Andrew keeps one hand on the gearshift between them, his knuckles white. 

It’s just the cold that makes Neil shudder.

He wants to reach out and touch Andrew, but knows that the lines drawn between them don’t permit that yet, so he grabs the door handle instead.

“Anyone ever tell you that you were a problem child growing up?” Andrew asks, digging around in the center console while he shifts into third. He slams it shut after a second. “Because I’d bet money that you were. God, did you use all my napkins, Josten? Fucking hell, that’s disgusting.” 

“More disgusting than leaving the mess on your seat?” 

There’s a beat of silence where Neil thinks Andrew is legitimately considering whether or not he should leave Neil on the side of the road like the feral creature he is before Andrew answers him. 

“We didn’t finish our conversation earlier,” Andrew says, and the headlights of passing cars flashing across his face. “About whatever the hell you think is happening between us." 

"The Dom and sub thing," Neil clarifies. "You know, where I wear your collar and ask you to hit me and make it feel good. Or do you need a refresher on how this usually works?"

"This is nothing," Andrew says. 

"It's not," Neil interrupts him. "You keep saying that, but that's a lie, isn't it?"

"You want the truth?" Andrew asks, revving the engine. "You think I don’t see you reading every street sign that we pass? Counting every exit? You say you don't want forever and then you turn around and ask to come to dinner with Nicky and Erik. You want me to forget you when you’re gone, but I can't do that. So there is no _this."_

Neil doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. He’s a confused mix of aroused and panicked and hopeful and disappointed. 

“Eidetic memory,” Andrew explains, tapping one finger against the steering wheel. “I’m going to remember every second of this, no matter how long it lasts, whether I want to or not. And frankly, your offer back at Jim Beans’ was offensive. You’re so sure that you’re going to leave that you’re building contingencies into our agreement before I can even give you a reason to stay. Whatever - I’m not going to stop you from leaving. You think I stopped Aaron? You think I held Nicky back?” 

Andrew’s face is again washed in yellow light as an oncoming truck flashes it’s brights at them. 

“I know how to let people go, Neil, but if you want _this,_ I won’t make leaving any easier for you when you decide to end it. I told you that I wouldn’t ask you to stay. But you said it first: people like us get fucked over. We don’t get happy endings. We get borrowed time, and I’m not going to waste mine chasing after a sub who has one foot out the door, so you can either admit that you want this, or you can walk away. Admit that this is going to wreck you when you try to leave."

“That feels a lot like you’re asking me to stay,” Neil says, reaching desperately for anything to smoother this fire - he would be content to let it burn down his entire life as long as he can come out unscathed, but the flames are already threatening to consume him whole. 

Andrew’s right; Neil doesn’t know how to survive this.

For once, he’s not worried about the people he’ll leave behind when he goes. 

He’s worried about how much of himself will be left afterwards, how much of himself will peel away when he buys that first bus ticket out of town. How many layers of skin he’ll lose when he tries to unglue himself from Andrew, how many miles it’ll take before he doesn’t hear Thea’s voice at every burger place, and how many months it’ll be before he stops looking for Kevin at every gas station or Jeremy and Jean at every airport. He doesn’t know how many hotels he’ll have to stay in before his chest stops hurting when he thinks of laughing with Matt and Dan or bumming an endless supply of seltzer off of Roland every Friday night. 

Running has always been about self-preservation for Neil, but he doesn’t know how much self he’ll have left to preserve when he leaves this time. He’s learned to give away pieces of himself, entrusting secrets and burdens and hopes and dreams to people who have wormed their way into his heart. He thought he was immune from wanting any one place, any one person. He had grown used to relying on himself for everything, but he’s starting to realize that he’s been Neil Josten for too long, and it might be too late to walk away from any of this without consequences.

He doesn’t know if he’ll have the energy to rebuild this again somewhere else.

Andrew takes a deep breath, as though he’s trying to figure out whether he wants to admit any of this aloud. 

“I’m not going to make your decision for you,” Andrew says. “I already told you what I want out of this, so it’s up to you to decide if you want the same thing, and whether it’s worth the cost. Whatever that may be.”

The statement is confusing enough that it draws Neil out of his thoughts. 

Of course Neil _thinks_ he knows what Andrew wants; they’ve had several variations of this conversation by now, but every time, Neil walks away feeling like he understands less and less about what’s going on inside Andrew’s mind. The last time he asked Andrew that question, they’d been sitting in the parking lot of La Margritte’s after Andrew showed him that baby-blue collar for the first time, but Neil hadn’t gotten a straight answer. And honestly, he’s been waiting for this moment, wondering if the whole Dom-and-sub thing could work if Andrew never told Neil what he wanted in plain English. Not that _graveyards_ and _the truth_ aren’t legitimate answers to that question, but it’s left Neil without an understanding of Andrew’s actual preferences. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve only been asking you that question for the past three months,” Neil mutters, because he can’t help himself. 

The engine groans this time when Andrew presses the gas and the speedometer ratchets up. 

“Then what do you _think_ I want, Neil?” Andrew asks smoothly. His voice is honey-sweet, but Neil knows better than to think Andrew is being gentle with him right now. 

It takes a lot for Neil to not say _me._

“I don’t know.”

“This is the last time I repeat this, Neil. As a Dom, I want to break you. That’s it. That’s what I want from all of my subs, and I will do whatever is necessary to take you apart. I know your limits and you know all of mine -” 

“What, you really expect me to believe that you only have two limits?” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow as if he can’t quite comprehend how dense Neil is being right now, but Neil lets out a dry laugh.

“Okay, sure. If you’re so great at this communication thing, why don’t you tell me what you’re afraid of with all of this - what’s kept you from having a long-term sub before? Because I’m already wearing your stupid collar and you haven’t scened with anyone else in months, have you? I mean, fuck, this doesn’t have to end before it even starts. Don’t tell me you’re going to move on next week after Thea wins the bet and they all see me in your collar. Don’t tell me you won’t get a fucking _thrill_ out of them thinking you own me, even if you don’t think it’s real. Tell me you haven’t already planned how you’d fuck me the first time if we let it get that far. How you’d make me hurt.” 

Andrew flicks his turn signal with one hand haphazardly, and never in his life had Neil considered turn signals sensual, but he’s rethinking that as he bites down on his knuckles to suppress his reaction. When Andrew looks over his shoulder before shifting lanes, Neil almost forgets what they’re talking about. 

“I already said if we’re going to do this, it’s on my terms," Andrew says, and Neil almost laughs. If that were true, Andrew would still have clean napkins in his car. 

“Yeah, well, my terms might be shitty, but yours are worse. You think this is about being my Dom -"

"Because it _is,"_ Andrew growls.

"But it's more than that. You think I'd let any Dom scene with me? If you've got an eidetic memory, then you probably know exactly how many times I picked the participant wristband at Eden's before you talked to me. I could've subbed for any Dom in that fucking club, but I've never wanted any Dom. I want _you._ And you want the challenge of trying to break me, so just fucking _do it_ already. Maybe we’re both fucking idiots for acting like we haven’t already played at being Dom and sub all along - whatever. Color me shocked, but it's not the first time I've sent someone mixed signals. So let me make this perfectly clear: I don’t want to fuck around anymore. I want you to fuck me. And if you can't forget about me after we’re done? Fine. I won't ask for more than you can give. At the end of the day, we want the same things, and I'm going to be fucked over either way. I might as well enjoy it in the meantime."

Andrew’s gaze flicks to Neil for half a second before he focuses back on the road, the speedometer climbing higher. Neil doesn’t feel like they’re going that fast, not when the engine sounds like the purr of a lazy cat and there’s an endless stretch of empty road ahead of them. 

"Take me to the stupid fucking dinner with your stupid fucking cousin and I’ll wear your stupid fucking collar and be your stupid fucking bratty sub. And you know what? You're aren't going to hate it.”

“Are you trying to test me?” Andrew asks smoothly in a tone Neil hasn’t heard before. “While you're making demands, is there anything else I can do for you, _princess?”_

Andrew jerks the steering wheel as they round a corner, and Neil realizes that they’re only a few blocks from his apartment. He feels another electric shiver down his spine; he thinks they both need this right now. And, God, if this is Andrew’s Dom voice, Neil already knows he isn’t going to survive this at all. 

For once, Neil’s mind goes blank. He doesn’t know how he would negotiate this differently, or what else he should be asking for tonight. He just knows that he’s not getting what he wants right now, because he wants _more._ Maybe that makes him a bigger brat than he thought. 

Maybe he just wants to make this difficult for Andrew. Maybe he just wants Andrew to tell him what to do already. 

“I’m not the Dom here,” Neil quips. “Isn’t that kind of your job?” 

He tries to appear as unaffected as possible, but he can feel his pulse jackrabbiting in his veins. He expects a retort about being a pain in the ass, but Andrew’s only response is a cruel smile as he turns into the parking lot of Neil’s building. When they pull into a space in the back row, Neil knows something is different, since he usually gets dropped at the front door. When Andrew cuts off the engine, it’s clear that he’s not taking Neil’s sass for an answer, but he doesn't say anything.

As usual, Neil has to kill the silence. 

“I mean, did you even get my texts?” Neil knows that he’s treading on this fucking ice. “I’m not good at following rules, but you want me to be in charge of making them up? No thanks.”

Andrew clicks his tongue. “I’ve never met someone who struggles with such simple questions, so I’ll make this even easier for you: are you prepared to submit to me entirely?”

Neil plasters on his fakest smile and hopes that it looks more like he’s baring his teeth. _“Yes,_ Master. That’s what you need to hear, right? Or did I not make my intentions clear enough when I said that I wanted you to fuck me?” 

Andrew reaches out and toys gently with the chain around Neil’s neck for a moment, his touch almost feather-light before he curls the collar into his fist and pulls Neil closer until they’re nose-to-nose. The chain digs into the tender skin of Neil's neck, and it’s the first time Andrew’s touch has been so unforgiving; Neil wants more. He has to forcibly stop himself from arching his neck and submitting to Andrew’s touch before they’ve even come to an agreement, because it's already embarrassing enough that he's so desperate for Andrew to Dom him. 

"Has anyone ever told you that you don't always get what you want?" Andrew asks.

Come to think of it, Neil would kill for Andrew to tighten his grip on the collar right now, to make it _hurt._ One daydream that Neil’s had repeatedly over the past few months flashes in his mind - an image of Andrew in the driver’s seat of the Mas, jeans unzipped, one hand gripping Neil’s hair as he gags around Andrew’s cock down his throat - and it’s so close to becoming a reality in this moment that Neil is almost willing to agree to any of Andrew’s terms, as long as it ends with Neil deep-throating Andrew within the next few minutes. 

Neil knows he'll get what he wants.

But Andrew holds him in place for now, not acknowledging the way Neil’s eyes have glazed over slightly with desire.

"You're not used to hearing no because you're a spoiled brat," Andrew says. His voice is low enough and threatening enough that Neil swears he can feel it reverberating in his bones. "So this is my offer: if you are my sub, you will answer me whenever I ask you a question. No _Master_ bullshit. In public, you will call me Andrew, and in private, you will call me Sir -”

“What about princess?” Neil interrupts with a wheeze, and his smile isn’t fake this time; it’s a taunt. 

Without missing a beat, Andrew says, "If you think you can handle the punishment, you’re welcome to try.” He loosens his grip on Neil’s collar but doesn’t let him move an inch. “Speaking of, you’ll take whatever punishment I see fit when you break the rules, unless you need to safeword, in which case I expect you to do so without hesitation. You’ll follow directions during a scene. You’ll kneel when asked, and wear what you’re told during a scene. I don’t want to ever see that stupid cat shirt -”

_“Lick my pussy,”_ Neil interjects quietly.

“- ever again. Beyond that, I don’t care what you do. I’m not interested in a 24/7 dynamic. I don’t want you to call me in the middle of the night because you’re bored. Is any of that unclear?” 

“No.”

“If I am your Dom, Neil, I am your only Dom. You don’t scene with anyone else until this -” Andrew lets go of Neil’s collar to motion between them, and Neil catches himself on the armrest before he falls forward into Andrew’s shoulder “- ends. If you want to be my sub, if you want to keep the collar and call me Sir, those are the rules.” 

Neil can’t focus on the way his entire body vibrates in agreement with everything that Andrew just said. He doesn’t care about other Doms, so it’s hardly an inconvenience for him to scene exclusively with Andrew. In fact, that’s exactly what he has wanted for some time now.

The rest of the rules are doable if he’s feeling cooperative, but he looks forward to breaking most of them someday. 

“Can I ask for an upgrade at least?” Neil asks, fiddling with the whiskered metal cat face on his collar. “I was thinking something more comfortable might be nice.” 

Andrew is, apparently, not amused. “That isn’t an answer.”

Neil tilts his head, as though he's considering Andrew’s proposal. He knows that he’s pushing this too far, but he can’t help himself.

“That wasn’t exactly a question. Sir.”

He expects Andrew to tell him that this isn’t a joke, but what he really hopes is that Andrew will pull him in by the collar again and make him give a yes-or-no answer.

Andrew doesn’t do any of that, though.

He steps out of the car without another word, and the door barely makes a sound when he shuts it, which is funny. He should be pissed off at Neil for being difficult and bratty and too much of a smartass. It would be easier that way; they’ve both been skirting around this conversation for too long.

But Andrew doesn’t look mad when he steps out in front of the Maserati and stares up at the silver moon above them, lighting his second cigarette of the evening. Neil has always pictured Andrew’s anger as a tightly wound coil on the verge of snapping, but the familiar ebb and flow of dark emotion behind Andrew’s carefully guarded expression is currently missing. There’s an almost ethereal quality to him, enhanced by the glow of the headlights splashed across the backs of his knees. 

When Andrew turns his back to the Mas, Neil knows he’s made a mistake. 

Andrew is just tired. Neil is too entranced to move as he watches Andrew through the fogged-up windshield. Tonight, like this, Andrew looks vulnerable. His shoulders hunch forwards when he takes a drag of his cigarette, as if he knows he’s already been reduced to a silhouette that blurs a little too much around the edges. Neil stares at him until it’s hard to distinguish Andrew from the grove of trees that butts up against this end of the parking lot. 

If Andrew were to step just a few more feet towards the tree line, he would disappear entirely into the darkness without a trace. 

As if he never existed at all. 

The orange glow of Andrew’s cigarette flares when he takes another drag, and the air in the Maserati is suddenly suffocating and hot when Neil tries to breathe. His chest aches when he stares at Andrew, and his mind is busy stringing up lines between the past and the present until there’s a cobwebbed mess of emotion in his brain.

No matter what happens next, Neil feels like he’s about to lose something. He should just step outside and tell Andrew that he’s been waiting for this moment since Halloween.

The headlights of the Maserati dim automatically, as if telling Neil to pay closer attention to the play of light across the creases in the fabric of Andrew’s jeans, so he does. He searches for abstract shapes in the shadows but when he follows the trail of moonlight across Andrew’s face, he can’t seem to find the familiar ghosts of power and control and protection that are usually sculpted into the curve of Andrew’s neck.

What Neil sees in front of him is a blank canvas.

His stomach sinks.

He needs to get out of the car. 

He needs to say something, but he doesn’t know what would help right now, and the seatbelt isn’t working right when he tries to press the button. He can almost feel the heat of a California sunset across the back of his neck when his fingers slip against the seatbelt for a second time. 

He needs to explain that this _yes_ isn’t just a _yes,_ but he doesn’t know where to start. The pins, maybe - that could help. He needs to tell Andrew about the pins and the map and the six anchors and the way his skin crawls when he stays in one place too long. He needs to explain how putting down roots feels like being strangled, and that saying yes to Andrew is both a great and terrible thing. He needs to explain that he's allowed to want things that will hurt him, things that will terrify him and break him and test him. 

He should’ve told Andrew back at La Margritte’s that his tombstone won’t be the collar at all - God, the seatbelt still isn’t _working_ \- because his tombstone is going to be the mark that he leaves behind on Andrew’s heart when he goes. 

These three letters shouldn't have to hold so much meaning. He knows that every _yes_ that he gives Andrew is going to be worth it.

But one day, this won’t be enough.

They'll get to their very last _yes._

Their first _no -_ the kind that's permanent. The kind that doesn't mean _stop_ or _wait_ or _later._ The kind that makes them want to rewind this all the way back to the start, but it'll be too late.

And what they’ll be left with is the word that hurts the most. One last unspoken _please_ that neither of them have the stomach to say aloud, but those letters will be written into the spaces between breaths during their final goodbye. They'll hear it in the unforgiving silence when neither of them says _stay._ And when Neil looks back on _this_ moment, sitting in the front seat of the Maserati, when he wonders why it hurt to see Andrew standing alone in the headlights, he’ll know why Andrew has so much hatred for the word. 

_Please_ doesn’t know when to stop fighting. _Please_ can’t stop the pain. _Pl_ _ease_ is a promise that’s already been broken. 

Neil knows he’ll carry the weight of that word into his next life - six letters, six new anchors.

He’ll drown. There’s no other way this ends. He already feels like he’s gasping for air - his lungs are too small and his heart is too big, but he’s getting what he wanted.

_Please._

He needs to fucking _say_ something before Andrew disappears entirely into the darkness right before his eyes. That’s just a trick of the light, Neil tells himself, but if he knew what was good for himself, he would be running from this feeling. It’s dangerous to go headfirst into someone else’s darkness.

_Please._

It’s the memory of a sob, half-a-decade old, that’s permanently caught in the back of his throat. 

_Please._

He just needs to feel Andrew’s steady pulse beneath his fingertips until his mind is convinced that they’re safe and alive and _here._

Neil takes a deep breath until his lungs ache, and then exhales. He can do this. It’s just one word, but it’s going to begin the process of breaking down their walls. 

His hands finally figure out how to work the seatbelt, and the door comes open too easily. He almost falls out of the car - 

“Yes,” he shouts into the darkness, tripping over his feet as he rights himself. The cold air seems to make that word heavier than it should be, and Neil has the irrational thought that Andrew didn’t hear him at all, despite the parking lot being dead silent. He needs to say it again, because it’s important to get this right. “It’s always yes with you.”

Andrew turns to face him slowly, his face sharpened by shadow as he processes this, and relief floods through Neil’s veins right before Andrew’s expression shutters quickly.

For a few seconds, he’s an unreadable stranger in the cold, dark night. 

But that's just another trick of the light. 

(Neil knows it’s not). 

Andrew turns his empty stare back towards the sky, exhaling a ring of smoke. 

“Don’t ‘always’ me,” Andrew says.

Neil’s knuckles have gone white from gripping the top of the passenger side door for balance. When he finally registers the cramp in his hand, he lets go and flexes his fingers until the stiff feeling starts to dissipate. 

“Andrew -” 

“I heard you the first time.” His voice is an echo of the whispering pines behind him. 

Neil should ask if this is another of Andrew’s limits, one Andrew himself didn’t know existed before tonight. But if Andrew wanted to talk about it, he wouldn’t be smoking alone in the light of the moon in front of the Maserati. And he has safewords that he could use, but he doesn't. So he either trusts Neil not to push this right now or he's retreated too far into himself to care about finishing their conversation. 

Neil stares up at his apartment building, trying to find the right way to phrase his question as he counts the windows until he finds his room: three from the left, two from the top. 

“So Nicky’s dinner,” he says. It's the most roundabout way of asking if Andrew wants this too.

He fills in the blanks. “You still want to come.” 

"Yeah. I do.”

Perhaps they’re not meant for more than this. Their lives might only overlap for a short while before they drift apart indefinitely; Neil doesn't know what happens after he graduates next year, assuming they make it that far. He knows forever is a wish he's not allowed to make, but he's never been good at following the rules, right? He doesn’t have to let that stop him from being greedy during this nebulous interim.

Andrew flicks one last bit of ash from his cigarette before the final embers fade to black. 

“Then come."


	16. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Always the first star that I find, you're my satellite // Maybe you will always be just a little out of reach.”  
> {guster, satellite}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MONTH WITHOUT UPLOADING, I COME BACK WITH - a chapter. I’m very sorry this is SO FULJKSNFDKCING LATE!! I took a 2 week birthday/holiday break from addicted (which was also a life/work/etc break). and my bff existential dread is back thanks to vaccine rollouts being so slow and wondering if they'll ever get to us lowly frontline healthcare providers despite already vaccinating management staff 2 weeks ago who literally have zero patient contact EVER, and then my dr upped my dose for my meds again because it's been eight months of hell and clearly nothing is working so hey, why not?? at this point I might as well adjust my expectations for remission bc that shit just ain't happening soon. Anyways, that put me in a weird place for a bit so. long story short, no more breaks bc bad stuff happens lol. 
> 
> TAGS/WARNINGS: lingerie, hands-hands-hands (including erotic hands) (that should be a tag) (maybe it is, I didn't actually check) (look, i was forced to read romeo and juliet WAY too many times when i was younger so it clearly rewired something in my brain with hands, okay??) (same with macbeth but we're not talking about those hands rn oops). One very explicit restaurant bathroom handjob w/bonus mirror content + very mild humiliation if you really squint (i don't think it's exhibitionism bc the door is locked so it's pretty tame imo). Neil safewords (yellow) for a hot second at the beginning of it cuz he's an anxious mess as usual. If I forgot any tags PLEASE let me know!!!

_“What about Nicky’s dinner?”_ Neil mutters mockingly, shoving his dresser drawer shut. “I mean, what the fuck was I thinking?”

“You were thinking with your dick,” Matt says unhelpfully, and Neil almost wishes that his phone would drop the call so he doesn’t have to hear Matt say that again. 

Somehow, he convinces himself not to hang up immediately. 

“I was _not,”_ he mutters. 

It’s not the same as talking to them in person, but it’s the best he can do on short notice, especially considering that most of his friends are currently out of the state. Including Matt and Dan, who are currently en route to a cabin in upstate New York to celebrate with the entire extended Boyd family.

Matt laughs. “Don’t worry, buddy, it happens to the best of us.” 

Neil lets it drop because frankly, he doesn't know how to explain why he wanted to be invited to Andrew's family dinner in the first place. Whatever it was had made perfect sense in the moment, but now he doesn’t know what he was thinking. Spending the next several hours with Nicky, Erik and a pissed-off Andrew is not going to end well, and he should've realized that much sooner than half an hour before he's due at the restaurant. Unfortunately, foresight is not Neil's specialty. Something-something-curiosity-killed-the-cat, it doesn’t matter.

At least he can admit at this point that he’ll take any excuse he can get to see Andrew, even if that means suffering through a fancy dinner. He also wants to give Andrew his gift, and it’s not like there’s any guarantee they’ll see each other again before Christmas, so dinner it is. Not that he can show Andrew his gift in front of Nicky and Erik. But the finer details of his plan don’t need to be fleshed out for it to work; it’s all about the presentation, really. And Neil is nothing if not versatile. He’ll improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

So maybe he was thinking just a little bit with his dick. 

But he’s also slightly worried about Andrew, and dinner with Nicky might shed some light on the lonely shadows that sometimes creep into Andrew’s life, the ones that take up too much space for Neil to fit comfortably. It's been several days since they last spoke, but every time Neil shuts his eyes, he sees Andrew's silhouette against the backdrop of a vast, dark horizon. So small and lonely. And every time that happens, he starts to think about how easy it could be to get lost in that kind of enormous solitude, and how, after a while, Andrew might not want to be found.

Neil had recognized a familiar face in Andrew's shadows that night, and he did the only thing he know how to do: he left. Andrew told him to go, and Neil didn't have to be asked twice. 

But he wants to do better next time. He wants to learn how to sit with Andrew when he slips back into that darkness, and keep the light on to help guide Andrew home.

That should terrify him - the idea of becoming someone else's home - and it does, if he thinks about it too long. But Andrew’s name has already started to become synonymous with the word, and it's still at the point that he can pretend like none of this means anything if he ignores the way his breath catches in his throat when they're together.

He doesn't know how else to handle this, so he swallows down his nerves and pretends that Nicky is the one making him nervous. (He wishes it was easier to lie to himself.)

So yeah, he was thinking about a lot of things when he asked to come to this dinner, but he wasn’t thinking about what a family dinner would actually entail. That was a bit of an oversight in retrospect, because he certainly wasn’t ready for someone (Nicky?) to chose a ritzy farm-to-table restaurant for their rendezvous.

When Andrew sent him a handwritten note with the address just a few hours ago, telling him to be there by six, Neil had almost called him up to cancel. It didn't help that the note also said _cocktail attire required_ and came pinned to the front of a garment bag containing said cocktail attire. 

Somehow, he ended up calling Matt and Dan instead, because he's never been to a farm-to-table restaurant. He has no idea what farm-to-table even means, because he presumes all food comes from a farm before it ends up on his table. But when he checked online, the website said reservations were required, and all of the pictures featured tables with dainty tea light centerpieces and pristine white cloth napkins, with more than enough cutlery for Neil to remove several of Nicky’s vital organs if things get out of hand. He hopes that the excessive number of knives at each place setting will help Andrew feel more at ease, too, since he can’t picture how Andrew will fit into a place as fancy as this with his permanent scowl and cigarettes and black-leather-everything. Even if his black leather is Balmain, even if it costs a small fortune, it isn’t exactly cocktail attire. 

And that’s what Neil is now stuck on: the cocktail attire part. Matt is supposed to be his moral support, but Neil has yet to actually get dressed. 

“You can’t back out now,” Matt tells him. “It’s too late to cancel - just put it on. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Neil flops down onto his mattress, jostling the glossy black garment bag that’s been staring back at him for the past few hours. 

“I’m not backing out.” 

“Okay - see, I hear you saying that, Neil. I really do. But you have less than fifteen minutes before you’re supposed to be there. Have you even looked at what he sent you yet? It might not be that bad.” 

Neil doesn’t answer right away. Technically, he _has_ already opened the bag. When the intercom buzzed around lunchtime, Neil had ignored it at first. If Kevin had a package arriving, Neil wasn’t going to go out of his way to accept it - not after Kevin had abandoned him for an entire week. 

But the buzzing had been incessant, and when Neil eventually answered it, the voice from downstairs said it was a delivery for Neil Josten, not Kevin Day. He'd only accepted the delivery because he recognized Andrew's handwriting, and had spent the better part of the rest of the day staring daggers at the stupid thing.

“It’s a suit,” Neil tells Matt. “A black suit with a grey shirt and a stupid grey tie, but it’s too formal. This isn’t _prom -_ it’s just dinner at some stupid restaurant with his stupid cousin -”

“Maybe lay off the stupid talk if you want to make a good impression, yeah?” 

“I’m not a _doll,”_ Neil says bitterly. “I can dress myself. He doesn’t need to send me _clothes_ like I’m a child who needs to be supervised.”

Matt clicks his tongue. “Hey, Dan’s almost at the front of the line. You know she’s going to yell at you if you’re still on the phone when she gets back out here.” 

_“Matt,”_ Neil whines. 

_“Neil,”_ Matt whines back. “Don’t ruin this over a suit. Just … look at it as a gift, okay? Andrew’s allowed to give you nice things. That’s what boyfriends are for.” 

“I don’t think Dan would agree with that,” Neil mutters, pulling out the grey shirt and staring at it with barely-tempered disgust. “And I never said he was my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well, whoever he is to you, he bought you a nice suit. That’s all it is, Neil. But if it upsets you that much, just wear one of your own.” 

“Yeah, like everybody just has a suit laying around.” 

Neil can almost hear Matt’s confused frown from several states away. “I mean, yeah?” 

But that's where Matt is wrong. Not everyone has a suit laying around. Case in point: Neil owns more collars than he can count, four skirts, at least a dozen thongs, a few lacy briefs, a handful of bralettes, and three bodysuits, but he owns exactly zero suits (excluding the one currently on his bed, because as far as Neil is concerned, that suit belongs to Andrew).

“You don’t own one, do you?” Matt sighs heavily. “Actually, that kind of makes this simpler. You wear his suit, or you wear nothing at all.”

Neil can hear a car door open before Dan’s voice cuts in. 

“What the fuck, Neil, I thought you had to _go.”_ Then softer, to Matt: “It was $39. You can give me your half later.” 

Neil knows she’ll legitimately kill him if he doesn’t hang up soon. He’s been on the phone with them for the past hour while they drive, and Dan has been getting increasingly short-tempered as the weather declines. It could be because Neil keeps whining about the free suit he’s been given, or the fact that Matt is whining about the legitimacy of expensive gifts, or that she’s driving through the worst snowstorm of the past decade whilst being subjected to said whining. 

“I’m going,” Neil says, flopping onto his back on his mattress. “I’m literally leaving right now. Walking out the door as we speak.”

“Say hi to Andrew for me,” Dan says with forced cheer. 

Matt doesn’t have a chance to say goodbye before the line goes dead. Neil allows himself a moment to stare at the blank phone screen in his hands before he makes a decision. 

If Andrew thinks that sending a custom-tailored designer suit to Neil’s apartment a few hours before dinner is going to make him more cooperative, he’s in for a big surprise. 

This is Neil’s Everest, laid out before him within a black garment bag, and he only has a few minutes to scale it or he’s going to be late. 

\---

He is, unsurprisingly, late.

It probably didn’t help that he decided to walk to the restaurant instead of paying for a car, but he needed a few minutes of cold air to clear his mind and the restaurant is only a few blocks from his apartment. 

He really doesn’t have time to stand on the curb and glare at the storefront, but his stomach bottoms out when he realizes just how out of his depth he is. It's all nauseatingly festive, and he hasn't even seen the inside yet. Massive evergreen garlands and twinkling fairy lights are draped over the front window, and there’s a nutcracker the size of a small child next to the entrance that’s more unnerving than it is merry. A row of tiny gold bells, sewn onto a velvet strap, are hanging from a wreath on the front door, and when Neil steps inside, their faint tinkling mixes with soft piano music. 

He immediately feels out of place, and regrets everything. He should've never asked to come with tonight.

The maître d’ eyes him warily, as though he doesn’t quite buy Neil’s fancy suit charade.

It probably doesn’t help that Neil isn’t at all trying to act the part. He knows his hair is a mess of curls since he didn’t leave enough time to make them more presentable, and his face is flushed from the cold. He doesn’t belong here, even after being trussed up in Andrew's expensive suit, which had seemed unnecessarily formal when Neil had laid it out across his duvet. Staring at all the separate parts had left him overwhelmed. The jacket, the shirt, the pants, the tie, the cufflinks, the socks - cashmere, he thinks, because it feels like he’s walking on soft clouds right now, dyed to the perfect shade of dark grey - it seemed excessive. 

Now, he’s starting to regret the slight alterations he’d made when getting dressed. But it’s too late to fix any of that, since it’s well past 6:30. He’s not just late. He’s _late_ late, and hungry, and ready to play nice with Andrew’s family (even if he has no plans on playing nice with Andrew himself). There’s no time to steal away to the bathroom to un-wrinkle what’s already been wrinkled, or go home and dig the tie out of where he’d banished it to the laundry hamper. 

He squares his shoulders and checks the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, which he has rolled up to his elbows. The silver cufflinks Andrew had sent with the suit had been too fussy, so Neil had obviously not even bothered with them; those are currently sitting on his bathroom counter in their fancy velvet case, untouched. Not to mention he'd been running ridiculously late by that point, not having left enough time to actually put on his suit properly after getting Andrew's gift ready. It had been easier to roll his sleeves up than deal with ironing them. Opting to leave the top two buttons of his grey shirt undone had simply been a pragmatic decision. 

But with his generic white undershirt peeking out from beneath the gape of his shirt, the maître d’ is looking at Neil’s exposed collarbone like he’s some kind of Victorian coquette who exists only to scandalize the greater downtown area during the Christmas season. 

If Neil had bothered to wear the tie, now would be the perfect time for him to tighten the knot and brush some imaginary dirt off of his shoulders to prove that he belongs here. But hindsight is a bitch, and he didn’t realize he could’ve played the role of rich asshole tonight if he’d bothered to wear the whole outfit that Andrew had sent him. Instead of looking cool and composed, he just looks like a dumpy college kid who doesn’t know how to wear a suit and wandered into the wrong restaurant by mistake. 

Neil doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say now: _Minyard, party of four?_ Or is their reservation under Hemmick, or whatever the hell Erik’s last name is? Before he gets the chance to make more of an idiot of himself, a smooth voice cuts through the first chords of _Carol of the Bells_ in the background. 

“You’re late.” 

Neil is not, and will never be, prepared for what he sees when he turns around. 

Andrew’s face is bored as usual, but the flickering glow of candlelight highlights the gold in his eyes. His suit jacket is black like Neil’s, but Andrew’s shirt is the same shade of charcoal as the tie Neil left at home, while Andrew’s tie is identical to the lighter grey of Neil’s shirt. 

Belatedly, Neil realizes that if he’d worn the whole ensemble Andrew sent over, they would’ve matched. Perfect inverse images of each other. 

_Fuck._

His mouth goes dry when he glances at the crowded restaurant behind Andrew - not because Andrew looks incredibly powerful and fuckable in his suit, but because every table is teeming with bottles of wine and baskets of bread and five different kinds of forks at each place setting and it looks identical to the website. He'd hoped for a _little_ less truth in advertising, but the pianist in the corner classes the place up more than Neil expected, and he's quickly realizing how incredibly out of his depth he is. A hundred practice dates with Matt and Dan still wouldn’t have prepared him for this, and he’s gone and fucked it up before he's even sat down. 

Andrew steps into Neil’s personal space, apparently unimpressed with his handiwork. He smooths one hand over Neil’s lapels, silently buttoning one more button on Neil's shirt so that his white undershirt isn’t peeking out. When Andrew reaches up to fix the collar on Neil's jacket, his hand brushes against one of the leather straps currently hidden beneath Neil's shirt and his eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. 

Unfortunately, Neil can’t exactly start stripping in the middle of the restaurant for a quick show-and-tell, so Andrew’s imagination will just have to fill in the gaps. He gives Neil a quick once-over, as though he’s deciding whether it’s still worth it to drag him back to see Nicky and Erik or if he’d rather go straight home instead.

In a low voice meant only for Neil, he says, “I would’ve come over to dress you myself if I knew that you would take so many liberties with this.” 

Neil knows how to play this game, at least. It gives him solid ground to stand on, and reminds him of the gift he has for Andrew later - the part of tonight’s outfit that took the longest - and he grins. 

“I’m just glad you let me pick out what goes underneath.”

The rub of his leather harness against his skin boosts his confidence, and he tries not to shift in place just to feel the friction around his hips, his thighs, his ribs. He likes the way each strap is pulled just tight enough to make him feel pressure when he flexes his muscles. If he keeps this up, he’s not sure how he’s going to make it through dinner intact.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Andrew says before he heads back into the heart of the restaurant, clearly expecting Neil to follow. 

Neil stumbles after him and almost asks Andrew to deal with him _now._ He didn’t think leaving behind a tie and a couple of cufflinks would be that big of a deal, but now that he’s inadvertently fucked up Andrew’s matching suits plan, he can’t wait to give Andrew the full tour of his outfit. Mostly because he’s pretty sure Andrew will _hate_ it, and Neil is going to be in so much trouble.

The good kind of trouble, he hopes. 

Except he and Andrew haven’t exactly talked since their conversation outside of Neil’s building a couple of nights ago, and things still feel unsettled between them. Even admitting that makes Neil’s skin crawl, because they’re supposed to be official now. They’ve come to an agreement, but it feels like they’re still missing something. He just doesn’t know what. 

Once again, new lines have been drawn in the sand between them. Lines that seem to shift every time the wind changes, making it harder and harder for Neil to know where he stands at any given moment. Some days he’s closer to Andrew, and others, he’s impossibly far away. 

The uncertainty is easy enough to push aside for now, though. Neil is Andrew’s sub, and Andrew is his Dom. Neither of them would be here tonight otherwise, and he reminds himself of that fact by imagining Andrew stripping him out of the starched shirt and pants later, unbuttoning each layer with steady hands until he gets to the brand new harness underneath. 

It was a self-indulgent purchase Neil had made the week after he first saw Andrew’s old collar after Jean's bonfire. He had been transfixed by Andrew’s hands that night, drawing invisible shapes on the pastel-blue leather as he spoke. Ever since then, Neil has been waiting to recreate that moment on a larger scale.

He hopes it was worth every cent, because it cost him almost all of his last paycheck, but he has better things to spend him money on than electric bills and rent. It's a custom piece that fits him like a glove, wrapping around his ribs, down his back, around his stomach, hugging his hips. It's finished off with a set of three tight bands around each of his thighs. He’d polished all of the silver hardware to the point of shining after putting it on tonight, carefully wiping his fingerprints off in a strange subversion of what his mother had made him to do countless motel faucets and doorknobs over the years. 

But that’s the main reason that he’s late, actually; looking this good takes _time._

He just hopes that all of his effort pays off later. 

Andrew's patterns aren't so mysterious anymore; he oscillates between being overly tactile and completely closed off. Neil just hopes that tonight is more of the former, that Andrew will take inventory of each buckle and rivet on Neil’s harness with a single touch, tracing a distasteful finger along the heart-shaped O-ring that’s secured over the middle of his stomach, running a fingernail along the two leather straps that slip suggestively beneath his waistband. 

If he’s lucky, tonight will end with Andrew’s cold hand following that exact path, dipping under the lace band of his tight baby-blue briefs, matched intentionally to be the same color as Andrew’s old collar, the same color as Neil’s eyes, the same color as his new harness.

But they haven’t even made it to their table yet, so Neil stops getting ahead of himself. They have to deal with Nicky before the real fun starts, and when Andrew stops in front of his cousin, Neil takes a deep breath to prepare for the worst.

Unfortunately, all he gets is an awkward greeting. Andrew rolls his eyes when Nicky stands up too fast, hitting his knee on Erik’s leg in the process. 

“It’s so nice to see you … again,” Nicky says hesitantly, glancing at Andrew as though he’s waiting for approval after delivering a scripted line. Andrew sits down and unfolds his napkin into his lap without looking up once, ignoring all of them.

Nicky sits back down, smiling nervously, and it makes Neil feel like he’s walking into the middle of a conversation where he was the previous (unfortunate) topic of discussion. But if they were talking about him before he arrived, it clearly wasn’t anything good. Then again, Neil hasn’t given them anything good to talk about. He knows he’s not exactly the kind of guy that anyone would want to bring home to meet their parents, but Andrew isn’t just anyone. 

He’s _Andrew._

And he’s got at least one knife strapped to his wrist right now, if Neil isn’t mistaken. The nervous tick of Andrew’s fingers pulling at his left sleeve, tracing the shape of an invisible blade as he stares at a spot on the wall behind Neil’s head, just south of his left ear - Andrew doesn’t want to be here. 

The tension at the table is already thick in the air, and it’s painfully awkward while Neil gets settled. When he starts loading up his plate with bread, à la Matthew Donovan Boyd (he did learn _one_ useful thing on his practice date), Erik clears his throat. 

“How are you, Neil?” 

He keeps his arms crossed as he stares across the table at Neil without offering him a hand to shake - again, not that Neil would’ve shaken it. He just wants every possible opportunity to be difficult tonight, since what little he knows about Nicky and Erik is not particularly flattering. He’s here for Andrew first and foremost, and until Nicky and Erik prove that they aren’t a threat, Neil will treat them as such. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Neil mutters.

It’s equal parts hostile and honest, but Erik seems to share the sentiment. They’re both strange players in this game, after all, allied only by their unwillingness to make any of this intentionally worse. Neil can tell by Erik’s reluctance that he’s not afraid to be Neil’s adversary if it means defending Nicky, and Neil can respect that. He’d do the same for Andrew. 

Andrew, who’s now twirling his butter knife in one hand and watching the flicker of candlelight reflect across the blade. It’s unnerving.

Probably because it’s a knife, and Neil has a history with knives. 

But that's the easy answer, and Neil knows it's not entirely true. He frowns down at his own place setting, ghosting his fingers across the different cutlery, and doesn't feel anything. But when he looks back up, he realizes that it's Andrew that's unnerving him. Andrew, who is usually so unmovable, so stoically impassive. To see even this small crack in his usual apathy is sobering. 

Neil turns to Erik with a forced smile then, determined to drag them all through this dinner on small talk alone. “How are you?” 

It might not be the most pleasant greeting when it comes from between gritted teeth, but he really is putting in effort. More than Andrew is, at least. 

“We’re really excited that you’re both here,” Nicky interjects quickly, eager to please. When Erik only sips his wine impassively and nods, Nicky unsubtly kicks him under the table. _“Right,_ Erik?” 

“Yes, positively thrilled,” Erik says, side-eyeing Andrew once before turning his incredibly bored stare back towards his menu. “Andrew has never brought a friend to dinner before, after all.” 

This seems to break Andrew out of his trance. The butter knife gets forgotten on the table.

“Neil isn’t here as a _friend.”_

Neil doesn’t know why Andrew objects to the word so intensely. Neil doesn’t care if Nicky and Erik think they’re friends or roommates or business partners or lifelong enemies. As long as he gets to go home with Andrew at the end of the night, he’ll be whatever Andrew wants him to be. One word won’t change who he is. 

Then again, Neil isn’t about to announce that he’s Andrew’s sub in front of his family. He doesn’t want to explain what the chain around his neck means, and he’s fairly certain Andrew doesn’t want to explain it, either. What Andrew tells his family about his personal life is none of Neil’s business, and Neil gets the feeling that Nicky and Erik wouldn’t understand what happens at Eden’s without asking for details that don’t exactly pair well with a glass of Cabernet. 

“Right,” Neil says, taking a sip from the glass of wine in front of him. Honestly, it’s kind of disgusting, despite probably costing whoever’s paying tonight a small fortune. He licks his lips before setting the glass back down and staring straight at Andrew. “I’m here as a distraction.” 

Andrew is predictably unimpressed, but he looks up at Neil long enough to catch his gaze. “If that’s true, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Nicky laughs. “As long as he didn’t pay you to be here.”

Neil can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke or not, and he considers saying no for a moment before he’s reminded of the stupid suit he’s wearing. It could be considered a form of payment. Hypothetically speaking, of course. But before he can say that, Andrew cuts in. 

“Right. Because I can afford to pay someone to be my date now. And clearly, the only reason someone would want to spend time with me is because I gave them money.” He picks up his butter knife again silently, everyone at the table tracking the motion. “But you _really_ think - given all of my resources - that I’d choose to pay someone like Neil to be my date if I wanted to impress you?” 

Nicky takes a long drink, at a momentary loss for words. Thankfully, Neil isn’t. 

“Does this mean you’re finally admitting that you have poor judgement?” He traces a finger around the rim of his wine glass, but Andrew doesn’t seem to hear him. 

“Some things never change, do they, Nicky?” 

“It’s a joke, Andrew - you know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s been less than fifteen minutes. We don’t have to kill each other over this. I know that things didn’t end so well last time -”

“Didn’t end so well? Things went exactly as you’d planned. You went back to your perfect life in Germany, and you got a perfect job and adopted a perfect dog with your perfect boyfriend and you go on perfect dates and visit his perfect family once a week. All that’s missing is your asshole cousin who won’t come visit you on all of the appropriate bank holidays.” 

“That’s not true -”

“Then tell me you wouldn’t be happier if I flew out there a few times a year and marveled at your heirloom china set or complemented your extensive glassware collection like Aaron does. That’s what you really want out of this, right? You want me to say everything’s fine now, that it worked out okay after you left. Because if I’m fine, you don’t have to feel guilty for breaking your promise anymore.”

Andrew doesn’t have to say _but I’m not fine_ for Neil to hear it crystal clear, because those are the same words that get stuck in Neil’s throat. The ones that bang around inside of his head on bad days and threaten to spill out every time he opens his mouth when he feels like running away. For the past twenty-plus years, he hasn’t figured out how to put a voice to those words. 

Because _I’m not fine_ is an admission of defeat. 

He knows on some deeper level that it’s not true, but that’s what his mother taught him. That was the difference between life and death back then, when his pain was easier to ignore if it was smothered under something heavy, like a measure of cheap whiskey in a hotel bathroom and a fist to bite down on while steady hands stitched him up. But that kind of not-fine is different than the kind of not-fine that’s taken root in Neil’s chest ever since his mother died, the kind that tells him none of this was okay from the start. He’s been un-learning a lot of what she taught him, trying to reconcile what he thought he knew about the world with what he thinks he knows now, but he still doesn’t know how to unravel that belief because it was useful back then. His logic served a purpose that was less harmful than the alternative, but it’s holding him back now. He just wants to know how to shape this particular truth, how to live with the fact that he isn’tokay at all, without losing everything in the process. 

He should be stronger than this. 

Three words shouldn’t be able to break him, but he knows that they will. 

So he understands exactly why Andrew lets those three unspoken words get buried in the silence that follows, even though every second that passes is slowly bleeding him dry, draining him down to nothing.

Neil is tired of seeing his own truth reflected back at him in Andrew’s eyes, tired of the accusation tucked into every judgmental flick of ash from the end of Andrew’s cigarette. 

Maybe this makes them both the worst kind of hypocrites. Neil has no right to ask for a truth of this magnitude if he can’t offer one in return.

Unfortunately, their server chooses that exact moment to take their orders, and Neil points to something random on the menu. He doesn’t really care; it’s all likely over-priced anyway. When it’s Andrew’s turn, he hands off his menu without a word, so Neil ends up ordering for him, too. Being in the middle of a family crisis doesn’t mean Andrew has to skip dinner. Even if he doesn't eat now, he can save it for later. 

When Nicky gets a refill on his wine, Neil reaches out and grabs the neck of the bottle before the server whisks it away again. 

“We’ll need all of this,” he mumbles, and their server reluctantly lets him keep it. 

He probably just added a fortune to their bill by co-opting the entire thing, but Andrew doesn’t bat an eye when Neil unhelpfully refills Erik’s glass and then twists the bottle in his hand to watch the reflection of candlelight sparkling inside the bottle. 

For a few tense minutes, the only sound comes from the pianist, who’s been suffering through what seems to be a never-ending rendition of _Greensleeves._

“I have a novel idea,” Erik says suddenly when the song stops. “Why don’t we stop pretending that you want an apology, Andrew? You’ve spent the past few years punishing Nicky for having his own life, and you’re clearly not interested in hearing him say sorry because then you wouldn’t have an excuse to ignore him. You’d be forced to confront the fact that you both did things that hurt each other, but you’re still family. And that's why we're here.” 

Andrew stands up, and Neil thinks their evening is already being cut short, but Andrew only shakes a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket. 

“I need a fucking smoke before we do this,” he says to no one in particular.

Neil starts to stand to follow him, but Andrew sets a firm hand on his shoulder. There’s an unspoken command that flashes in his eyes - that he needs this time alone - so Neil sinks back into his seat. He’s capable of handling Nicky and Erik for a few minutes on his own, after all.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think something like gratitude flickers across Andrew’s face before he steps away. 

“He’s just as impossible as before,” Erik says to Nicky in a low voice after a moment. “I don’t know why you expected him to react any differently. Coming here isn’t helping him, and honestly, I don’t know if he even cares anymore. Maybe it’s not such a big deal if he doesn’t -” 

“Really?” Neil interrupts. He knows it’s not his place, but he can’t sit here and do _nothing._ Not when he’s going to forever live in that moment of silence before Andrew said _don’t fight for me,_ not when he can still see the pain on Andrew’s face when he said _the only thing Nicky did was rip open an old wound._

It would be smarter, Neil thinks, to let Andrew handle this on his own.

But Andrew is outside right now, probably struggling to hold onto the broken pieces of himself that will forever threaten to cut him open, a good clean line from sternum to throat, spilling out all of the poison from his blood, his lungs, his guts. Enough poison to stain the entire horizon black.

An entire lifetime’s worth. 

It’s almost funny; Neil never realized that those sharp edges aren’t just a threat to Andrew himself. They’re affecting everyone around him, ready at a moment’s notice to cut into anyone who gets too close. But Neil sees it now in Nicky: the invisible scars, the hurt, the regret, the guilt. 

Andrew trusts nobody with those parts of himself because he thinks those edges are too sharp, too dangerous, too _much._ He just hasn’t realized that it’s impossible for anyone to know him without becoming intimate with the sting of his silence, the weight of his suffering, the eclipse of his heart. That’s what Neil has done, after all. He’s learned the shape of Andrew’s most dangerous terrain by sound and sight and touch, mapping out a turbulent landscape that he’s only been allowed to explore under the cover of darkness. With cautious hands and tongues and the wet warmth of Andrew’s tongue against his fingers, Neil has gotten close enough to feel Andrew’s foundations begin to shake. 

But this, tonight, is the result of all those raw edges tearing away at Andrew’s inner circle. Nicky drains his wine glass for the second time, frowning down at the empty plate in front of him. Erik’s jaw is shut tight to keep any number of hard truths to himself. Aaron wasn't even invited.

And then there’s Andrew’s empty chair. 

“He cares,” Neil says, unable to look away from the spot Andrew should be occupying right now. “If you think he doesn’t, then you don’t know him at all.”

It’s too late for Neil to have a grand epiphany about this, but he’s having one regardless. He stares at the bottle of wine now sitting in the middle of their table amidst the cluster of tea lights and pats of butter on dainty plates, nestled between a set of silver salt-and-pepper shakers. He focuses on the glass of water in front of Andrew’s plate, the ice cubes melting slowly into slivers of nothing right before his eyes, and the only thought in his mind is that Andrew has been running on empty. 

It’s a cruel sleight of hand that makes it easy to mistake Andrew’s apathy for something less dangerous, but Neil supposes that’s because it’s an art Andrew mastered ages ago in order to survive. And Neil has been too mesmerized by the distractions to realize it: the Maserati, the collars, the late-night discussions, the volatile start-and-stop of their negotiations at every turn, the lights and music at Eden’s, the wristbands and roles and nicknames and the trust they’ve been building on shaky ground. Throughout it all, Andrew’s been trying not to slip away.

Neil has seen the blank looks, the bored expressions. He’s sat in silences that stretches for minutes at a time. It’s all one step removed from an invisible precipice that Andrew stands on the edge of, but Neil has been too busy prying at Andrew’s seams to notice how close they are to that dark abyss. And now it feels like he’s forgotten how to speak, because he’s stumbled upon an accidental truth that tilts the world on its axis slightly. 

Andrew _does_ care.

He says that he doesn’t, but that’s a lie. He says that he’s not worth fighting for, but he _is,_ and some part of Andrew recognizes that even if he can’t admit it aloud yet. He’s tried to tell Neil with every touch, every conversation, every time that it would’ve been easier to walk away. He’s been trying to prove that he’s worth staying for.

Neil doesn’t know how he missed this, and his only excuse is that Andrew’s sentences are slippery things that he can’t quite fit his hands around. He listened to all of the ways that Andrew has been hurt. He’s heard the explanations and he’s memorized the rules so he could play this game but he somehow forgot the stakes. 

It makes sense that Andrew functions best in terms of promises and terms and conditions, that he has to outline each and every detail of a relationship before he sinks his teeth into it. He said it to Neil first: _you’re building in contingencies into our agreement._ But that’s exactly what Andrew does, too. That's exactly what he did when he allowed Nicky into his life, because he knew that Nicky would go back to Germany eventually. He built an expiration date into their relationship to keep himself from getting attached or hurt or invested - Neil doesn’t know why exactly - but it clearly didn’t work.

Maybe Erik wasn't wrong when he said Andrew is looking for excuses to keep people away. He's been doing the same with Neil, after all, desperately searching for excuses to put distance between them, all while inching closer and closer to what he clearly needs but can’t ask for. 

Like Neil, Andrew is scared of the past repeating itself.

Like Andrew, Neil has been approaching this all wrong. 

“He doesn’t owe you forgiveness,” he says, not bothering to direct his statement towards Nicky or Erik in particular. 

Neither of them say anything at first, probably because Neil looks unhinged with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt still partially unbuttoned, his curls half-slicked back from running his hands through them nervously all afternoon. 

“I know that,” Nicky says eventually, reaching for Erik’s hand. “That’s not what Erik meant.”

He stops, frowning at Erik as though he’s waiting for him to agree, but Erik doesn’t look convinced. It takes a moment before Neil realizes they’re having some silent argument right in front of him, one that’s probably been had dozens of times before. He wonders what kind of wedge Andrew has driven through Nicky and Erik’s relationship, if Neil is watching another casualty of Andrew's sharpest edges occurring in real-time. 

Nicky already left Erik once for Andrew and Aaron, after all. Temporarily, Neil knows, but that kind of distance couldn’t have been easy. He isn’t about to excuse Erik’s unforgiving opinion of Andrew, but he can see why it might exist. 

Except Neil isn’t here for Erik. 

“Don’t push him," Neil says. "What I said the other day still stands: I have ways to make you pay if you hurt him.”

“That’s not - you don’t understand,” Nicky says. “That’s not why we came.” 

He glances at Neil’s collar, but there’s no way he knows what it means. 

“Look, Neil,” Nicky continues, “everyone’s been saying you’re kind of a big part of Andrew’s life now, and he wouldn’t have brought you tonight unless he felt you were safe.”

Erik nods, even though he’s currently eyeing Neil warily. 

The implication of being _safe_ to Andrew is a heavy weight on Neil’s shoulders. He’s never been someone else’s protection, and he repeats the word with a frown. 

“Safe.” 

Neil isn’t safe. In fact, he’s probably the furthest thing from safe, considering his scars and his past and his instinct to run at the first sign of trouble. But maybe safe doesn’t mean gentle, or warm, or soft. Maybe safe is a fortress, steady and strong and immovable, because that’s what Andrew is to him. 

But maybe safe means something else to Andrew entirely. Maybe Andrew sees something other than runaway when he looks at Neil, something other than the scars.

Nicky sighs heavily.

“I came to check on him, Neil. He told me not to come visit him after I moved to Germany, and I wanted to respect that after what happened with Aaron. So we talk on the phone every week. Or - I talk, he listens. Because that seems to be the most he can tolerate from me, but that’s fine. Really, it works. And - I don’t know, maybe I’m just being optimistic - he seems better lately. Now or never, right?”

He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and sets it on the table in front of Neil. Andrew’s name is written across the front in calligraphy underneath an ugly _return to sender_ stamp. Neil doesn't dare touch it, but he notes the return address in the corner, the soft pink color of the envelope, the dark red ink spelling out Andrew's address. 

"He sent it back," Neil says. 

Nicky pulls out a second envelope, a carbon-copy of the first, identical down to the same return to sender stamp. 

“Several times. Aaron's getting married this summer, but Andrew keeps sending the invitations back. He won't even listen to me talk about it - every time I bring Aaron or Katelyn up, he hangs up. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know if he's just being an asshole, or if he actually can't handle this. But he needs to know. He needs to have the choice to go or not. And when I found out about you, I thought …” 

It’s a good thing Neil isn’t holding his wine glass anymore, because he would’ve dropped it by now.

“No,” he says, shoving the envelopes back towards Nicky. “No, I’m not getting involved in this.”

“Roland name-drops you during every conversation we have.” Nicky pockets Aaron’s rejected wedding invitation. “He thinks you’re good for Andrew.”

“I’m not,” Neil says, because he knows exactly where this is headed, and he has zero intentions of being coerced into dragging Andrew to his estranged twin's wedding. “Andrew barely knows me. He said he hated me three days ago, so I’m the last person you should be talking to right now.”

Neil doesn’t bother to mention that it was the least emphatic _I hate you_ that he’d ever heard, because that doesn’t help his current argument. 

“You’re wearing his collar, aren’t you?” Nicky asks, and his tone far too casual for someone who’s tossing Neil the equivalent of a conversational grenade. “You’re his submissive.”

Instinctively, Neil reaches up to touch the chain around his neck. 

“I’m not - it’s -” 

“I’m not stupid, Neil. I spent four years hanging out with Andrew and Roland and Jeremy and Jean. Hell, I went to Eden’s with them half the time. And I really don’t know which one of you picked that out, but it’s not nearly as subtle as you think it is. Especially to someone who knows what they’re looking for. So: you’re wearing his collar, which means you’re his sub. I just want to know how he’s _actually_ doing because you know him better than the rest of his merry band of misfits, and Aaron might never forgive him if he doesn't even try to make this work. Katelyn is important to him.” 

Neil doesn’t have time to think of an answer other than _fucking fuck,_ because their server appears out of nowhere with a flurry of covered dishes, and then Andrew shows up not two seconds later, his hair windswept and his cheeks red from the cold. He slips back into his seat, frowning at the plate of food waiting for him. 

Nicky looks like he’s about to say something else when Andrew points his fork at them. 

“No. We aren’t talking about this during dinner.”

Belatedly, Neil realizes that there's no way Andrew doesn't already know exactly why Nicky is in town. 

It looks like Nicky is going to protest at first, before he takes one look at Neil and shuts his mouth. He busies himself with cutting his steak into bite-sized pieces, muttering under his breath in German, and Erik is suddenly very preoccupied with keeping him from knocking over both of their wine glasses in the process. Which means that neither of them are paying attention when Andrew reaches under the table and squeezes Neil’s thigh with a freezing cold hand. His touch lingers on the hidden leather straps under Neil’s suit pants, his thumb rubbing along the leather strap against Neil’s thigh for a brief second. 

Andrew’s face remains completely blank the entire time, and Neil almost whines when he lets go. He doesn’t know if the gesture is meant as thanks for ordering him food or for keeping Nicky and Erik occupied, but Neil wants more of whatever the fuck that just was. 

Dinner passes in relative silence, with Nicky sending Neil pointed glances every few minutes that Neil ignores by burying himself in his food. It isn’t until all of their plates are cleared away that Andrew acknowledges any of them. 

“Well, this was enlightening,” he says, pulling the keys to the Mas out of his pocket. When Nicky opens his mouth to protest, Andrew holds up a single finger to silence him. “One dinner. That’s what we agreed to, and it’s over now. Time’s up.” 

“But you said no talking during dinner -”

Andrew glares at them from across the table. “And?” 

Nicky sends Neil a pleading look that Neil purposely tries to avoid by reaching for his wine glass, but it still tastes disgusting enough that he’s going to have trouble even finishing a quarter of it. On the bright side, he's disappointingly sober, so there’s a non-zero chance this evening could still end _very_ well once Andrew gets his hands on him later.

“Fine,” Nicky says. “You can call Aaron yourself, then. Or ask Neil what we came here to talk about. See if he thinks you’re being smart about this. You've only got one brother, Andrew.”

Neil promptly chokes on his drink and ends up with half of it down his shirt and pants, because he wants nothing to do with this. Erik only smirks from across the table, and Neil can’t help but wonder if the smug bastard knew this was Nicky’s plan all along. 

Andrew doesn’t even seem to register the disaster unfolding around him. “We’re leaving, Neil.” 

“This is going to stain the Mas,” Neil says, blotting at his shirt with his _(very_ white) cloth napkin. It doesn’t help much, and their server appears out of nowhere to quietly deposit a handful of wet wipes on the table. 

Neil doesn’t really care about the shirt, but the gross feeling of wet fabric sticking to his stomach is only going to get worse when he goes out into the cold December night, and his glass really was almost completely full when he accidentally dumped it on himself. Andrew seems to realize this, and he sighs heavily. Either that or he really does worry about getting red wine on his leather seats. 

“Bathroom,” he says, balling up his napkin. _“Now.”_

Neil follows, because he’s not about to question however Andrew wants to solve any of the problems they’re currently facing. Hell, if Andrew asked him to crawl out of the bathroom window to avoid Nicky right now, he would gladly do it. 

“We’re changing,” Andrew says as soon as he shuts the door behind Neil, locking it decisively. 

Neil has no idea what that means, and he grabs awkwardly at his own lapels and stares down at the mess of red slowly soaking through the grey linen of his shirt. By the time he figures out what’s happening, Andrew already has his jacket off and is hanging it carefully over the sink. Neil’s mouth goes dry as he watches Andrew unfasten his cufflinks with deft fingers, depositing them in his jacket pocket before popping open the first few buttons on his shirt with one hand. 

“Let’s go,” Andrew says, snapping to draw Neil out of his daze, but that just keeps Neil’s attention on Andrew’s hands. “Stop worrying about your clothes. I’ll have them dry cleaned later.” 

As soon as Andrew has his own shirt fully unbuttoned, he shrugs out of it quickly, leaving Neil completely unprepared for the sight of Andrew in just his undershirt, short sleeves tight around his biceps as he crosses his arms.

“We’re switching,” Neil says belatedly. 

“Brilliant. I thought we’d established that already.” 

When Neil’s only response is a dry swallow, Andrew steps closer, pushing Neil’s hands off of his lapels and slowly slipping Neil’s jacket down his shoulders. He folds it over his own jacket on the sink, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Occupied,” Andrew calls out without taking his eyes off of Neil, his gaze tracing the line of the bell on Neil's collar where it dips low around his throat. He reaches for the buttons on Neil’s shirt, but Neil bats his hand away this time. 

“I can do it myself,” he mumbles, trying to regain some of his dignity.

For good measure, he takes an excessive amount of time to get out of his shirt as revenge for Andrew being unreasonably attractive, and then pretends to struggle with his undershirt until he can practically hear Andrew’s teeth grinding over the whir of the exhaust fan. 

Once it’s off, Neil is left wearing only his pants and the baby-blue harness and matching briefs underneath. It’s not exactly how he imagined showing Andrew his present, but he can’t exactly hide it now. He almost offers a weak _ta-da,_ but all of his verbal communication skills evaporate on the spot when Andrew reaches out to trace the top strap that encircles Neil’s left shoulder. 

His hand dips lower, along the ridge of an O-ring settled over his sternum, until his fingers comes to settle against the small silver heart suspended over Neil’s belly button. He doesn’t meet Neil’s eyes once, too focused on inspecting the harness itself, and it feels strangely intimate to have Andrew both figuratively and literally undressing him in the too-bright fluorescent light of a restaurant bathroom. 

They’re supposed to be doing something, but Neil seems to have forgotten what that was. 

“This was supposed to be a _family_ dinner,” Andrew says, his hand dropping lower to follow one of the leather straps that wraps around Neil’s hips.

His fingers end up tucked in Neil’s belt loop, and he pulls Neil forwards until he’s standing in the middle of the small bathroom, and Andrew steps back, circling him slowly. It takes all of Neil’s self control to continue breathing when Andrew steps out of sight behind him. 

“Nicky thinks I’m your sub,” he says, hoping to talk some sense back into himself. They’ve already been gone long enough, and they have bigger problems to deal with right now than Andrew's exhibitionism kink.

“And?” Andrew asks, settling his hand against the small of Neil’s back and snapping the strap that’s pulled tight across his skin. “I don’t care what Nicky thinks.” 

Neil was kind of hoping for something along the lines of _he’s not wrong._

“He’s worried about you,” Neil says. "I think he wants me to take you to Aaron's wedding."

Andrew steps back into Neil's field of vision but says nothing. 

“You should talk to him," Neil says. "Or something. I don’t know.”

If it weren’t for the way Andrew rolls his shoulders before stripping off his undershirt, Neil would have figured out a way to phrase that better. He would figure out how to tell Andrew that he doesn’t want to play messenger for Nicky, that he doesn’t want to be a part of whatever mess his cousin has dredged up tonight. He’d explain that all of this could probably all be avoided if Andrew would just be a responsible adult who answers people’s phone calls and visits Germany twice a year and shows up to his brother's wedding, even though that would be extraordinarily hypocritical. 

But Neil can't focus on that when Andrew is standing in front of him, shirtless and obviously aroused and _fuck,_ he’s definitely going to fuck Neil in the bathroom of the fanciest restaurant in town. 

“I’m not going to fuck you here,” Andrew says, somehow reading Neil’s mind as he holds out his undershirt. “Just put this on.”

Neil's mind gets sidetracked.

_Here._

_Not going to fuck you_ **_here_** _._

When Neil makes no move to take Andrew's undershirt, Andrew sets it directly into Neil's hands, but the fabric only bunches in his grip, soft and warm and lived-in.

Neil has to physically restrain himself from burying his nose in it like he did with Andrew’s jacket, and he manages to put it on before Andrew makes another comment about him being incapable of dressing himself. The fit is a little loose around his shoulders and chest, but that just means his harness won’t be as obvious. 

Mutely, Neil stares down at himself and feels a slow warmth building inside of himself. 

It’s just a shirt. 

By the time he looks back up, Andrew has already started to re-button his dress shirt over his bare chest. Neil feels slighted for not getting the chance to see his tattoo again, and before he can think better of it, he reaches out towards Andrew, his hand hovering in the air between them while Andrew tracks the movement like a wary cat. 

Neil waits patiently as Andrew buttons the next button on his shirt even slower, and after a moment, he freezes in place with his shirt still half-unbuttoned. Neil takes the opportunity to wrap his hand around Andrew’s wrist.

Someone knocks on the door again, but neither of them say anything this time. All Neil can hear is the heavy sound of Andrew’s breathing, and he swears he can feel their heartbeats match up when his thumb nestles into the crux of Andrew’s wrist. For a brief moment, he considers measuring the steady beating of Andrew’s heart with his tongue, chasing sweat along the curve of Andrew's neck. He fights back the urge to track Andrew's pulse with an ear pressed to the hollow of his chest, but those thoughts are as fleeting as they are intoxicating. 

He can’t touch without permission, after all. 

That doesn’t stop him from remembering the rare instances that Andrew has given ground and let Neil explore his body in unexpected ways. He still hasn’t forgotten the taste of his own fingers in Andrew’s mouth, the way Andrew’s tongue felt on the side of his neck, the feeling of teeth biting into his jaw. The massive electric potential running through Andrew's body turns Neil into a conduit whenever they touch. His nerves spark with anticipation as he stands in the dry, static air that stirs just before a lightning strike.

But it never comes, and the weight of its absence is diving him a little insane.

Patience has never been his greatest virtue, and tonight is no different. Neil just wants to wrap his hand around the side of Andrew’s neck. He wishes that he could rub his thumb along the stubble on the underside of Andrew’s jaw, to turn his own body into an offering, his arms into a shelter, his heart into a home, but that’s not what he was built for.

That’s not what Andrew wants. 

One day, he’s going to have to figure out what to do about this kind of dangerous impulse, but for now, he doesn’t want to acknowledge where it comes from. He already knows, even if he won’t dare admit any of it aloud. As impossible and unlikely as it is, and as much as Neil hasn’t earned it, he wants to be trusted. He wants to prove that he can be fierce and strong and gentle and reverent, all at once. He wants to prove that there are still sacred spaces in Andrew’s body - ones that hold onto all of that pain and trauma and fear and anger and loss, and ones where there is nothing but light. Places where none of this matters, and places where this is all that matters.

Most of all, though, he wants to make Andrew feel good. But that’s not something he knows how to do yet, and it feels like he’s redrawing some kind of invisible boundary just by reaching out towards Andrew right now - or that Andrew’s the one redrawing boundaries by allowing Neil to get this close in the first place.

His hand, Andrew’s wrist. 

This kind of exchange is deceptive in it's innocence. It seems like nothing at all, but it's built upon all of the concessions they’ve made to each other, all of the concessions they’ll continue to make, well past the point that they have nothing left to give.

It feels natural, and it’s supposed to be safe since Andrew doesn’t seem to mind Neil’s hand against his own most days, but the longer Neil holds on, the more reckless it feels. 

Hands aren’t idle creatures, after all. They’re impatient. Clumsy. Demanding.

Andrew puts his free hand around Neil’s bicep, and the way he tightens his grip is a quiet invitation: _you can’t hurt me._

(There is a distinct possibility that Andrew actually means _you're overthinking this,_ but Neil prefers his own interpretation.) 

The way Neil runs his thumb along the underside of Andrew’s wrist is a response: _don’t let go._

It feels better speaking like this, without words or sentences or languages that will never be able to contain the full weight of Neil’s desperate need for something _more._ He tastes too many words on the tip of his tongue right now - bittersweet ones, painful ones, ugly ones ones and rough ones - but he can’t say any of them aloud. Not to Andrew, and especially not to himself. 

It's hard to lie when his hands are shaking. Harder still to lie when he softens his touch into something cautious. His truth sinks through Andrew's skin. It tangles itself up and makes a home inside of his body, coiled into a knot somewhere in his gut, an exact replica of the way it sits in Neil’s. 

“Neil.”

They can’t keep up this wordless conversation, because it’s dangerous to hear all of the distance that separates them narrowed down to absolutely nothing. 

Neil takes a breath, aiming to make his response as unaffected as possible as he drags the both of them back from the edge of destruction. 

“That’s all the thanks I get?” He asks, but it feels off-kilter. There’s still too much truth swirling around inside of him, and he tightens his grip even more. 

“I’ve seen three year olds with sippy cups handle their drinks better than you tonight,” Andrew says after a pause, glancing at Neil’s stained shirt on the sink, the soaked patch on the front of his pants. “You think _that_ deserves thanks?” 

“I meant the harness,” Neil says dryly, picking up confidence as he settles back into familiar territory. “Do I have to spell it out for you, _Sir?_ It’s your gift.” 

“If it’s my gift, why are you the one wearing it?” 

Neil grins. “You want to wear it instead? It’ll only take me a second to take it off.” 

That, at least, is a boldfaced lie. It took far longer than a second to put on all of the buckles and straps earlier, but the addition of Andrew’s hands and motivation could get it done in half the time. 

Andrew doesn't back down from the challenge. He crowds Neil against the sink until the porcelain is pressing into the back of Neil's thighs, and Neil can feel his grip on Andrew's wrist getting looser. 

“You were supposed to enjoy the view,” he says, swallowing as he resists the urge to splay his fingers across Andrew’s chest.

His shirt is still only half-buttoned, and this feels different from every other time he's seen Andrew without a shirt on. It feels like the first time, because he hasn’t had the chance to appreciate Andrew's body before, not when Andrew has been so intent on using it to illustrate a point. Because Andrew has treated himself like a canvas, an anatomical model of trauma with pins and labels and definitions that he's painstakingly curated over the years: here is the pain, here is the guilt, here is the blame and humiliation and self-hatred. 

But this isn’t that, and Andrew isn’t telling a story with his body tonight.

Surprisingly, neither is Neil. 

“What makes you think I’m not?” Andrew asks, and there’s a certain rawness to his voice, as though he’s barely holding himself back.

His fingers run along the backside of Neil’s arm, up and down. He doesn’t give special attention to Neil’s scars. He doesn’t trace them, doesn’t care if his fingers find smooth or rough skin, because it’s like he already knows that Neil doesn’t want to be reminded of them any more than he already is, day in and day out. It's all just _Neil,_ and it feels vulnerable to open himself up like this. He never expected anyone to see past the scars that he’s accustomed to wearing like armor, a gruesome shield to distract the rest of the world from the invisible damage that lies beneath, sight unseen. 

But Andrew sees through all of it: the nightmares embedded in the spaces between Neil's ribs, like fingers sinking into the sponge of each lung, the dime-sized holes in his heart left by too many betrayals, the phantom throb of an inherited cruelty coursing through his veins. Those are the invisible wounds that have left him more disfigured than the marks on his skin, but they're strangely absent when Andrew stares at him like he’s committing this particular version of Neil Josten to memory. 

He’s unprepared for the way Andrew’s thumb traces a line down his tricep, and it sends a shudder down his spine. For a moment, his body is a just body and his skin is just skin and his name is just a name, not a prayer, not a plea, not a promise. 

He's not Nathaniel anymore. Not a Wesninski.

And when Andrew strips him of his defenses without saying a word, Neil feels like maybe that person never existed at all to begin with. 

All that’s left are the parts of himself that existed long before he knew the hard truth of his father, the enduring struggle of his mother, the bitter lie of his family name. Andrew looks at him and sees the person that will exist long after Neil has stopped being Neil, long after he’s become someone else. But he's spent so long being defined by the physical remainders of his past, the constant reminder of a time he’d rather forget, that it’s uncomfortable to stand here without calling their intimacy a pretense. 

He does it, though. He stands in the discomfort and stares back at Andrew. Andrew’s gaze tracks the movement of his throat as he swallows yet again, the line of his tongue as he licks his lips, and they both know what happens next. Andrew mirrors him, and Neil doesn’t have to ask twice. He doesn’t even have to ask once, not with words, not when they're so much better at interpreting each other's silences.

Andrew bridges the gap between their mouths, his hand curling back around Neil’s arm to pull him even closer. Neil’s _yes_ is written into the quirk of his lips the second before they breathe each other in, the way his body is pliant when Andrew lifts him up to balance on the edge of the counter, the way Neil spreads his knees without breaking his grip on Andrew’s shirt now, pulling at the fabric until another button comes undone. 

Andrew's _yes_ is more subtle, but Neil hears it when Andrew steps between his knees and rests a hand on Neil's hip. It's whispered against Neil's skin when Andrew digs his fingers into the inside of Neil's thigh when he lifts his leg, pulls him closer. It's spelled out by Andrew’s tongue, fervently exploring Neil's mouth.

This doesn’t feel like any other time they’ve kissed. 

Neil almost doesn’t notice the inappreciable slip of happiness under his tongue, like a drug that Andrew dispenses with clinical precision: a lick along the ridge of Neil’s teeth, a nip at his lower lip, a hand tightening on his arm. It’s ash and smoke and charcoal and the embers of a dying fire sheltered under a cupped hand, too much for Neil to breathe in without feeling scorched from the inside out. 

They’re both going to get burned if they keep this up. 

Still, Neil can’t help but melt into the ragged breaths Andrew shares with him. The dull ache of Andrew’s teeth biting the tip of Neil’s tongue when he dares to reciprocate is a reminder that this is real, it’s happening, and Neil can’t help it when he starts palming himself with his free hand. 

Andrew bites Neil’s lip, muttering, "I’m not giving you my pants if you come in yours,"between breaths. He pulls Neil’s hand away, placing it on his own neck instead, and they've moved beyond actual words now when Andrew gives him permission to touch.

_Here._

Neil brushes his thumb through the short hair on the nape of Andrew’s neck, and Andrew shudders, narrowing his eyes. 

_Bastard. Tic_ _klish._

Neil presses a kiss to the side of Andrew's mouth, his own counter-argument: _soft._

But he's still got one hand fisted in Andrew's shirt, and Andrew pulls it off, as though Neil is getting to close to skin. He trails bite marks down the side of Neil's neck, dragging ragged breaths out of Neil with every touch.

Neil can't make noise here unless they want to get caught, and Andrew’s name gets trapped in his throat again and again and again until it physically pains him not to say it aloud. He ends up sinking further into the feeling of Andrew’s teeth and tongue against his throat and collarbone, the feeling of rough palms against his chest as Andrew rucks up his undershirt up to inspect the harness closely. 

It isn’t until Andrew drags his fingernails down Neil’s side that his breath hitches. The subtle pain brings him back to himself, and he realizes that Andrew is pouring far too much of himself into this. His hands are too hot, his pulse too quick, his lips too spit-slicked, too desperate, and Neil wants to tell him to stop because there won’t be anything left for Andrew at this rate. Not when Andrew burns this bright, this hot, like a star about to collapse. Not when Neil doesn’t know how to give any of this back, not when he doesn’t know what to do with this now that he’s got it. Not when he’s already struggling for air, and he starts to panic, pulling back slightly and panting as he searches for some sign in Andrew’s eyes that this is okay, that he hasn’t somehow taken too much, that he hasn’t left Andrew with nothing. 

But there’s no sign that this is costing Andrew anything as they both try to catch their breath. Other than the harsh rise and fall of his chest, the way he still has one hand fisted in Neil’s curls, the other still cupped around the side of Neil's ribcage, there’s no indication that Andrew feels anything at all right now. 

He’s extraordinarily blank, and Neil doesn't know if that's good or bad.

Andrew doesn’t push him away. He doesn’t pull him back in for more, either, and that makes Neil frown. Andrew just watches him, circumspect, and Neil doesn’t think any of this is fair. There’s no way Andrew can kiss him like this and feel nothing - not when Neil feels like he just discovered an entire nascent universe somewhere beneath his solar plexus. 

He wants to ask if this is why Andrew doesn’t do long-term. He wants to ask if this is why there are rules and limits, if this is something Andrew did with his other subs and Neil isn't crossing a line. 

But asking that would breathe life into a dangerous truth, and Neil doesn't want to think anymore. Unfortunately, that's not an option. When Andrew remains frozen in place, waiting for Neil to calm down, every planet and star and galaxy that Neil just discovered within himself begins to collapse inward with a terrifying velocity, condensing into a single gravitational field that makes it impossible to breathe. 

Andrew twists his fingers through Neil’s hair and tugs to get his attention. 

"Yellow," Neil says, uncertain of whether it's okay to use a safeword when all they're doing is making out, but Andrew untangles his hand from Neil's hair. He rests his palms on Neil's thighs briefly before he steps back.

Neil doesn't reach out to pull him back in, even though the distance is painful. It's a strange feeling to want more from Andrew when he's already falling apart under the weight of what he's been given. When he exhales, it sounds almost like a whine. Breathy and soft and barely-there, and it makes Andrew take another step back. 

Andrew tilts his head, the fluorescent light catching in his hair. "What do you need, Neil?" 

Neil is too turned on right now to come up with an answer. He's trying to pull himself together, but he can't do that when every inch of skin feels keyed up and oversensitive. He should know better than to make out in restaurant bathrooms. He _does_ know better - what they were just doing is better suited to the bathroom of a Denny’s at 3AM between stacks of endless pancakes. Nicky and Erik are probably wondering where they went, and eventually someone is going to realize the bathroom has been occupied for too long.

But Andrew doesn’t seem hurried while he waits for Neil to process everything. All of his attention is on Neil as he keeps a careful distance between them. It’s likely out of consideration for Neil suddenly stopping mid-makeout, but it’s not helping. Neil needs Andrew’s hands on his body again, he needs that warmth seeping through his skin as he comes apart in Andrew’s hands. Andrew can't push him to the edge like this and leave him hanging, not when he feels like he's waited a lifetime for this.

He wants to keep going, but if he wants that to happen, he needs to trust Andrew to be his Dom. That means trusting Andrew to tell him if he's crossing a limit, because his job as Andrew's sub is to speak up when one of his own limits is being pushed, and Andrew's job as a Dom is to do the same.

It's also his job as Andrew's sub to tell the truth, so he does. 

“Take me apart, Sir,” Neil says, and he still hasn’t caught his breath. “You said you could destroy me, so do it. Finish what you started.” 

Andrew considers Neil's words for a moment, probably weighing them for truth and sincerity. "Color?" 

"It's green now, Sir."

"Can I trust you to tell me if that changes again?" 

Neil nods. "Yes, Sir."

And then the space between them narrows from feet to inches in the span of a second, and Andrew pulls Neil off of the sink by his harness. He almost loses his footing in the process, but Andrew only needs one hand to keep him upright. 

“You think you deserve to get off right now?” His breath ghosts across Neil’s cheek, his hand still gripping Neil’s harness to keep him still. “You think you earned it?” 

The answer is unequivocally _no._ Neil has not earned anything tonight. He purposefully put his suit on wrong, showed up late, inadvertently inserted himself into the middle of Andrew’s family drama, potentially outed himself as Andrew’s sub, and ruined the shirt that he spilled wine on. So naturally, his answer is: “Yeah, I think I earned it, Sir.” 

Andrew threads his fingers through Neil’s hair, tipping his head back and pressing him against the opposite wall. This time, there’s no space between their bodies. Neil can feel the curve of Andrew’s thighs against his own, the press of his chest, his abs, his arms. There’s no way for Neil to breathe without breathing Andrew in, and with the way Andrew has his fingers still fisted in Neil’s hair, Neil has no choice but to relax into his touch. He goes pliant under Andrew’s control and his head tips to the side, his nose brushing against Andrew’s chin as he takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. 

He trusts Andrew, but there's only one way for him to admit that right now: “Wreck me, Sir.” 

It takes a moment for Andrew to process that. He goes tense, still pressed in a hard line against Neil’s body, but Neil stays relaxed. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, and when he opens his eyes, he can’t help but stare at their reflection in the mirror: the back of Andrew’s head, the way there’s no room between them as Andrew’s hand keeps Neil pressed firmly against the wall. Neil can’t see past the way his own cheeks are flushed red, his mouth parted slightly as he struggles to get enough oxygen into his lungs. 

Andrew licks the side of Neil’s neck, and when he speaks, Neil can feel the rumble of his voice through every place they’re pressed close. 

“That’s not a challenge, Neil. Look at yourself.” Andrew drags his hand down Neil’s harness, touching each strap as he follows the path to Neil’s hips, just like Neil thought he would. “You’re already wrecked.” 

Neil moves to look down at himself, but Andrew stops him, his hand coming up to hold Neil’s head still. 

“Eyes forward,” Andrew says, glancing at the mirror, where he meets Neil’s gaze. “No touching.” 

Neil curls his hands into fists at his side, but his eyes catch on Andrew’s tie, still draped over his jacket on the sink. It’s a fantasy Neil has had many times before: his wrist tied behind his back as Andrew works him over with his mouth. Unable to touch, unable to move, his body trembling as he struggles to stay upright as he’s wrung apart. 

"You could tie me up if you don't want me to touch, Sir," Neil offers hopefully. 

“With that?” Andrew snorts. “No thanks.” 

He starts to unbuckle Neil’s belt, taking his time with the button on his pants, dragging the zipper down slowly. Neil squirms against him, trying to make him go _faster,_ but he’s not done being difficult yet. 

“Why not?” 

“Your inexperience is showing again.” Andrew stops undressing him. “Do you want the explanation or do you want to get off? We don’t have time for both.” 

Neil keeps his hands at his sides, but Andrew doesn’t take that as an answer. 

“You’ve already broken enough rules tonight,” Andrew says. “I asked you a question, Neil. What’s your answer?” 

Briefly, Neil tries to run through the rules that Andrew gave him the other day: call him Sir (he’s definitely broken that one tonight), follow Andrew’s directions (that’s debatable, since Andrew never specifically said Neil had to wear the entire suit), and answer whatever questions Andrew asks him (he's definitely breaking that one now).

“I want to keep going,” Neil says.

Andrew yanks Neil’s pants down around his knees in response, leaving only the thin layer of his pastel blue briefs between his cock and Andrew’s hand. His harness is too tight around his thighs for his briefs to come off, but Andrew manages to shimmy them low enough that Neil’s cock springs free. He smirks down at Neil’s exposed length, not bothering to touch him yet. 

“You’re a mess, Josten,” he mutters, and Neil flushes. 

He always wanted to be degraded in his place, to be called a slut - Andrew’s slut - but he never expected this kind of hot shame to burn his throat without being called names. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but when Andrew’s standing in front of him, his shirt still half-unbuttoned and his arms crossed as he gives Neil a thoroughly unimpressed look, Neil couldn’t feel any smaller. 

Instinctively, he moves a hand to cover himself, but Andrew catches his wrist. 

“Didn’t I say hands off?” 

Neil nods mutely, but Andrew tsks at him quietly. 

“You’re really not making this hard for me,” Andrew says, letting go of his hand. Neil lets it fall limply back to his side and tries not to look at Andrew, because all he can see now in the mirror over Andrew’s shoulder is his own reflection. 

“You can’t even answer my questions. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already been wrecked enough for one night.” 

Neil opens his mouth to protest, but Andrew takes that opportunity to trace one finger along the underside of Neil’s cock, and all that comes out is a strangled groan. 

“But I’m feeling generous. Tell me your safewords if you think you can keep going,” Andrew says. 

After calling yellow once already, Neil can't tell if Andrew is being more cautious, or if this is the usual amount of caution he approaches scenes with. 

“Green, Sir,” he says with a sharp intake of breath. “For go. Yellow for slow. Red for stop. Sir.” 

“Good boy,” Andrew murmurs, slipping his whole hand around Neil’s length and stroking slowly. “Where are you now?” 

Neil can’t help the way his abdomen clenches when Andrew tightens his grip. “Green, Sir.” 

He hates how it’s only taken a matter of seconds for him to become an obedient sub, desperate to obey his Dom, but Neil doesn’t have time to think about that when Andrew runs a fingernail around the head of Neil’s cock.

“And if I tell you to watch yourself in the mirror?” 

Neil catches sight of his reflection, and Andrew shifts out of Neil’s way, so they’re both staring at the mirror-version of themselves, with Andrew’s hand still wrapped around Neil’s cock. Neil’s mouth falls open when Andrew squeezes tighter, his thumb pressing tighter into the soft skin around the base of Neil’s cock. 

“Still green, Sir,” Neil manages to say, even as he struggles to meet his own eyes in his reflection. He tries to focus on Andrew’s hand instead, but Andrew notices his hesitation, so he adds, "It's green." 

He's desperate for this, but for a moment, he thinks Andrew is going to make him put his clothes back on and leave.

“You have two minutes to finish,” Andrew says in a low voice. “Whether or not you’re not done by then, we’re going back out to say goodbye to Nicky and Erik, and then I’m driving you home. Understand?” 

His hand moves along Neil's shaft, building in pressure as Neil's mouth falls open in a silent gasp. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Spit,” Andrew tells him, holding his hand in front of Neil’s face. Neil frowns, confused, until Andrew adds, “Unless you’d like to do this dry.” 

Neil doesn’t, so he does as he’s told. 

Andrew hums in response, his hand now sliding leisurely over Neil’s shaft as he resumes his steady pace. Already, Neil’s fingernails are digging into his palms as his heart rate picks up, but he’s not going to finish in time if Andrew's movements are this sleepy. If they had more time, Neil would be content to let Andrew work him over like this for hours, bringing him slowly to the brink and then pulling him back, over and over and over again until every single one of Neil’s nerve endings is on fire. But two minutes isn’t a lot of time. It’s not _impossible,_ but Andrew isn’t exactly being helpful. 

“Ninety seconds left,” he murmurs in Neil’s ear, watching him in the mirror. When their eyes meet in the reflection, Andrew grins wolfishly at him, baring his teeth threateningly as he shifts until his own erection is pressed into Neil’s hip, and Neil whines this time, the sound needy and desperate and he’s already so utterly _gone_ that he doesn’t even care. To know that he's having an effect on Andrew is intoxicating in the best possible way, and the realization goes straight to his dick. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. His skin is being stretched taut with arousal, his muscles tensing as he tries to focus on the fact that Andrew’s hand is around him, that he wants Andrew’s hand _in_ him, that this is the first time Andrew has touched him like this without a protective layer of clothes between them. The distance between them has narrowed down drastically to the atomic level, until it feels like his body and Andrew’s hand are moving in slow synchronicity. Andrew’s smooth strokes, his slick palm - it’s too much, which is an embarrassing realization because this is the most lackluster, laziest hand job Neil’s ever witnessed. But he’s getting close now. 

Stupidly close, actually, given how little effort Andrew is putting in. He thinks he knows why Andrew is still smirking at him in their reflection, watching Neil closely as he starts to feel his orgasm build. 

Andrew knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s taking Neil apart without even trying. Hell, he’s using Neil’s own spit as lube, which is only a step better than going at it dry, and he’s spent the entire time moving like there’s no rush. It's humiliating that Neil is so worked up that he's begging Andrew for an orgasm in a restaurant bathroom, that he's been given a time limit, that he's being forced to watch himself fall to pieces in the mirror, that he _likes_ it.

He would’ve expected this kind of reaction from his own body when he was younger, but he’s an adult now. He shouldn’t be this easy to unwind, but Andrew has somehow cracked his code without even breaking a sweat. 

He's going to finish. 

His hips stutter forwards as he imagines the warmth isn’t just a hand. He’d love to shut his eyes and imagine Andrew sinking to his knees, swallowing down his entire length until his nose brushes the trail of hair along his abdomen, but he can’t do that. He has to keep his eyes open, and Andrew must realize this, too, as he slows his pace even more. 

“Thirty seconds,” Andrew tells him, but Neil feels like he’s not going to make it ten. 

Two minutes ago, he wasn't sure that he'd be able to come in time, so it's ironic he's now desperately trying not to come yet, to prove he isn't desperate, to prove he's not already putty in Andrew's hands. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to stop the building pressure in his abdomen, but it doesn't work. 

He can’t come before time is up. God, he shouldn’t be able to come from this at all. He was stupid for thinking he would last the entire time, because this had to be Andrew's plan all along. He feels his muscles tense again, and again, until his breathing picks up and then there's no turning back, and he almost reaches down to stop Andrew because he’s definitely going to come and he needs a paper towel or a tissue or something, but he’s not supposed to _touch,_ so he doesn’t.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ _"_ Neil pants as Andrew counts him down.

Ten seconds. 

It's only nine more seconds. It's only -

He's coming. He can't stop the way his orgasm rips through him, the way Andrew says, _eyes open, baby,_ the way his dick pulses as Andrew pulls him through it with the smallest of strokes as Neil’s cum hits the tile, dribbles down Andrew's thumb. The last aftershocks of his orgasm roll through him as his dick twitches in Andrew's hand. 

“Consider this payback for my car,” Andrew says coolly, wiping his hand off on the edge of Neil’s undershirt, which is rucked up disgracefully over his stomach, caught on his harness. He doesn't bother helping Neil back into his briefs. 

Neil shuts his eyes, his chest heaving as he tries to remember an orgasm that felt this _right._ It takes a few moments before he feels steady enough to move again, and he uncurls his fists, shaking out the tension in his hands from keeping them balled up so tightly the entire time. He tucks himself back into his pants while Andrew rests back against the sink, watching him get dressed. 

But when he bends to pull his pants up, he's unsteady on his feet. He almost trips, but Andrew reaches out to steady him, pulling him upright until Neil is pressed flush against him. 

They’re face-to-face, and Neil wants to reach out and return the favor. He wants to make Andrew feel just as good, to see if he can unravel him just as quickly, but he knows better than to ask for that after Andrew made it very clear what was going to happen tonight. 

But after being too effectively humiliated, Neil isn’t going to take mercy on him, either. Especially when Andrew is very clearly still turned on, so Neil looks pointedly at Andrew’s crotch, a slow grin spreading across his own face. 

“Consider _that_ payback for sending me out to your car in the first place.”

"You're insufferable," Andrew mutters, but he starts to re-dress Neil. 

And this time, Neil lets him, even though Andrew's movements are unforgiving when he reaches down and pulls Neil’s pants up. He does up all the zips and buttons and buckles with nothing but cold detachment, untucking Neil’s shirt from his harness and smoothing it down, but Neil is starting to recognize Andrew's efficiency as his own version of affection. 

When Andrew holds Neil's jacket out for him to slip into, Neil feels his face flush. He's not used to letting someone else take care of him. 

Without a word, Andrew finishes buttoning his own shirt as though nothing just happened. 

“We’ve been in here for too long,” he says as he unlocks the door. “Let’s go.” 

Neil quickly wipes up the floor so no one will break a hip. He pauses in front of the sink and grabs an extra paper towel to clean the drool off of his face, but as soon as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he knows there’s no covering up what just happened. Despite Andrew's help, Neil still looks wrecked. His lips are bitten, his skin rubbed is raw from where Andrew had licked and sucked and bitten it, and his throat is littered with marks that are already starting to bruise a darker shade of red. Not to mention his entire outfit is so much more fucked up than it was when he arrived, and his hair is even more untamed than usual.

He’s also walking out of a locked bathroom behind Andrew, carrying his stained undershirt and button-down in his arms. 

It looks bad. 

Andrew passes their table on the way out and tosses his credit card in front of Nicky, who’s wearing a mix of confusion and betrayal on his face. Erik doesn’t even look up at them, sipping his wine as he scrolls through his phone as though he knows exactly what they just did and wants no part of it. 

“Don’t cheap out on the tip,” Andrew says. He pauses, taking his keyring out of his pocket and staring at the Maserati emblem, and Neil is surprised when Andrew looks at Nicky directly. “I’ll drive you back to the airport tomorrow as long as you drop the Aaron bullshit.” 

Nicky holds up Andrew’s credit card. "You going to need this back?" 

“Bring it tomorrow," Andrew says, and he turns to leave.

Neil is about to follow him when he spots the pile of wet wipes still sitting on the table, and he grabs a fistful of them while Nicky watches.

“They’re for the Maserati,” he explains, stuffing them into his pocket. 

“I do the same thing," Nicky says brightly, as though Neil doesn't look like sex right now, as though this is exactly how Nicky expected tonight to turn out. "I always keep a bunch in Erik’s car - too many iced coffee spills.” 

Neil glances over his shoulder at Andrew, who's already disappearing through the front door. “Right. Iced coffee.” 

Before Neil can leave, Nicky grabs his arm. 

“Seriously, Neil. Whatever you said to him … thanks.”

"I didn't say anything," Neil says, and it's the truth.

He doesn't know why Andrew offered to drive Nicky and Erik to the airport tomorrow, or why Andrew is paying for dinner. He doesn't know a lot of things, but he doesn't have time to think about any of that when Andrew has already disappeared outside.

As he turns to go, he almost doesn’t hear Nicky’s quiet _Merry Christmas, Neil._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! and to everyone leaving comments + kudos + stuff, thank you thank you thank you <3
> 
> (ps - i'm going to try to respond to some comments moving forward maybe? like, i know i haven't responded any on addicted before since it makes me very nervous for some reason, but like the fkn nerd that i am, i've been practicing elsewhere. so if i pop up here or there ... (: hi)


	17. The Fear of Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 11:32pm on Feb 14th ie FINISHED JUST IN TIME TO STILL CALL THIS A VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL!! This took an embarrassingly long amount of time to write, but here's a little not-actually-valentines-day-themed andriel bdsm to celebrate the last uh... 28?ish minutes of today. as a treat. Hopefully this makes your day a little brighter and if you're still reading this then you're my valentine now, no take backs <3 <3 <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _If you love me let me go, these words are knives that often leave scars. I won’t give up without a fight._  
>   
>  (the piano version is the ONLY version of gospel as far as i'm concerned)
> 
> Warnings/tags: lol what warnings. jk there's always something, and this can be summarized nicely as 'we interrupt this breakdown for an orgasm'. anxiety/ptsd/flashbacks + mentions of (Neil's) blood/scars/past physical injuries/etc. also ft. ropes, cockwarming, ANOTHER FUCKING HANDJOB (x2 actually, whoops lol sorry not sorry). as always, let me know if i've missed something!

On the way back to his apartment, Neil tells himself that he’s fine. 

And for a while, he is. 

It wasn’t even a real scene to start with. A blink-and-you-miss-it orgasm in the bathroom of a restaurant he will likely never visit again. The most rushed handjob he’s ever experienced, given with the least amount of enthusiasm he’s ever seen.

It was nothing. 

So when Andrew idles the Mas on the curb in front of Neil’s place and offers to walk him up, Neil isn’t lying when he says that he’s fine. He genuinely _is._

Andrew hesitates, of course, not quite knowing whether Neil is telling the truth or not. But whatever he sees in the flush of Neil’s cheeks must be convincing, because he taps his fingers on the steering wheel twice and says _tell me if that changes_ before leaning across and unlocking Neil’s door. 

Because that’s how it starts sometimes: with the kind of nothing that slowly becomes something.

So when Neil stands in his apartment bathroom an hour later, his hands start to shake as he reaches for the tap. 

It has nothing to do with what happened in the bathroom earlier, how Andrew touched him and worked him over until he fell apart. 

But as he comes down from the buzz of adrenaline and oxytocin and whatever chemical cocktail had taken hold on him, he can’t quite push what Nicky said out of his mind. 

_You’re good for Andrew._

_Family._

_Safe._

His fingers pick at the smear of cum on his shirt, already crusted over. He strips down to nothing in the harsh fluorescent light, inspecting his own skin with detached, clinical scrutiny. He turns on the shower as hot as it can go but doesn’t step inside. He’s transfixed in front of the fogged mirror, tracing his initials - or his father’s initials, he isn’t sure - _N.W._ over and over again until they suddenly morph into _A.M._

His phone starts ringing in the other room - one, two, three times - and he ignores the dull ache that takes root in the back of his head, gripping the base of his skull like a possessive hand (like Andrew’s hand, like his father’s hand). 

_Safe._

Someone in the unit below him starts shouting. There’s a thud as something hits the wall. Another voice. His phone keeps ringing and ringing and _ringing_ and he can’t stop staring at the back of the closed bathroom door because he can actually _feel_ the hand against his neck now. He’s terrified of what he’ll see if he looks in the mirror: blood dripping down the silvery glass, pooling along the backsplash, painting the sink red as his own unscarred hands come up to wipe away the letters that are permanently burned into his memory. 

_Happy Birthday, Junior._

This isn’t sub drop. 

He blinks down at his hands. Clean, scarred skin stares back at him. 

Bloodless. 

He blinks again, trying to rationalize the bitter taste in his mouth, but the smell of rot and bleach overwhelms him as he inhales. An impossibility, but it feels real enough to almost retch. The steam from the shower is cloying, thick and hot as it settles in his lungs.

By the time his heart stops racing, the tap is still running. The shower is on but he doesn’t know how much time has passed since the water is cold and the steam is long gone. 

He turns them both off, and the room falls into a deafening silence. 

This isn’t sub drop. That felt different: more like sinking, less like falling _(like drowning, like suffocating, like dying)._ The sharp feeling that rips through his chest whenever he breathes right now, the feeling that tells him to run and not look back - that’s new. 

No. 

Not new. 

He shuts his eyes because this isn’t the first time. 

But it won’t be the last time, either.

His skin is still sticky and he should probably clean himself off, but he can’t. Even freezing water would feel hot and slick like blood against his skin, rivulets snaking down his wrists, his arms, his neck, his face. Droplets catching in his eyelashes. The sting of soap or sweat or tears as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror, the very face from his worst nightmares staring back as he falls apart.

He can’t risk standing in the bathroom any longer. After fumbling with the doorknob and stumbling into his bedroom, he waits for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, his chest heaving as he struggles and fails to catch his breath. He’s uncertain where he buried these memories the last time he laid them to rest, uncertain how they unearthed themselves without making a sound, uncertain how he can escape them quietly, without consequence. 

(There’s no reason to call Andrew.)

The tangle of sheets on his bed stares back at him, and the stillness of his empty apartment is suffocating. It mutes his heartbeat and amplifies his breathing until the rhythmic sounds of his existence become foreign to his own ears. Something is being ripped out of his chest when he lays undressed on top of the covers and blinks up at the ceiling, wondering how long he has to stay perfectly still before the rush of blood in his head isn’t deafening, isn’t disorienting, isn’t painful. 

(He just needs space to think.)

He tries to focus on something else until he falls asleep, and ends up imagining Andrew somewhere across town, trying to hold onto the aftertaste of Neil’s skin while he gets off, biting down on his own fist and pretending he’s sinking his teeth into Neil’s neck. He wonders if Andrew ever touches himself as gently as Neil wants to, with as much care and attention and unbridled fascination. 

It probably isn’t healthy, and it doesn’t stop the just-punched feeling he gets every time he shuts his eyes, the frantic startle that forces his body upright every time sleep threatens to pull him under. But it distracts him from whatever is going on inside his mind, until the long nighttime shadows shift into soft, grey shapes that float across his bed like clouds, and then he sleeps, listless and defeated.

He wakes up with one hand twisted into the chain of his collar to keep the choking feeling at bay.

Routine doesn’t come naturally tp him the next day, but he forces himself into the familiar patterns in order to skirt neatly around the bubble of panic steadily building up in his chest: he goes for a run. He doesn’t look at his reflection. He eats, stares out the window, counts the seconds ticking past, paces the rooms of his small apartment until he feels like a caged animal. 

Then he runs again. 

He doesn’t look at his reflection again. 

He eats again, stares out the window again, _again -_

He repeats it ad nauseum. He goes through all the motions of being human until he starts to feel like one again, until Christmas Eve has come and gone and Christmas itself is swallowed up by desperate avoidance. It’s suddenly the 26th and that means Kevin is flying back to South Carolina in a few hours. 

Neil needs to be fine by the time he gets back. 

(His body feels like lead, poisonous and heavy.) 

He’s already lost hours (days) to whatever this is.

Andrew texts him something innocuous and easy to ignore, like _call me when you get this._ When that goes unanswered, he leaves a voicemail that Neil listens to on repeat until the tight band around his chest starts to loosen. But every time he presses play and holds his phone up to his ear, all he can hear is _eyes open, baby_ overlaid with his own strangled groan and the whir of the ceiling fan, the distant sound of piano music filtering in through a locked door. He hears the faucet turning on, the click of the door unlocking, Andrew’s quiet _let’s go._

It’s easier to focus on that than it is to listen to Andrew saying _answer your goddamn phone, Neil_ on an endless loop. 

He’s fine, mostly. Or he could be, if only his face would cooperate and twist into a smile for five goddamned minutes.

He’s fine. Really. 

But he doesn’t feel any truth to those words, because his knees feel weak in the worst kind of way and his heart starts racing whenever he tries to sit still. He doesn’t want to be stuck in the past, doesn’t want to see the crudely-shaped letters spelling out _Junior_ and the smudge of a bloody handprint across silver glass whenever he closes his eyes. He’s trying - he’s fucking _trying -_ to keep himself from falling apart, because he’s terrified of finding out what happens if he gives this thing an inch.

There’s no point in asking how long it will be before he hits bottom, how many times he’ll have to hear his own jagged scream on repeat before he’s irreparably broken, how many times he’ll have to feel the sting of his father’s axe against his throat before he chokes to death on his own blood. He already knows the answer. 

On days like this, he feels like it would’ve been kinder if his father had finished the job. It’s funny: he already survived the worst possible thing that could’ve happened, but he’s still crippled by the same fears he had before he was kidnapped, before the smell of gasoline meant a match and a body and the roar of flames melting leather and plastic, before he was haunted by the sound of the car battery exploding, the smell of toxic smoke billowing into an otherwise perfect California sunset. 

(He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore.)

He’s fine. His father is dead, and Neil isn’t, so he’s fine. Relatively speaking. 

(He’s never been fine.)

He shuts his eyes again, and across the black canvas in his mind, he doesn’t see his bruised reflection anymore. He sees the mirror in the hospital bathroom, his uncle silhouetted in the doorway behind his bloodied and bruised reflection. 

_(This is the only way you survive.)_

He slips lazily between sleep and consciousness for several hours, knowing he’s burning time, knowing he’s avoiding his problems, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s exhausted. 

Pretending that he’s not seems like more effort than it’s worth when he’s laying next to a phone that won’t stop buzzing, an alert for yet another group text, another overly cheery post-holiday message that will only remind him of the voids in his life that didn’t feel like voids until recently. 

When the buzz cuts off abruptly, he assumes it’s finally out of power.

(Technically, he’s not avoiding Andrew; he’s avoiding everyone.)

He dreams briefly that Andrew is beside him, drawing him close with one arm wrapped around his stomach until they’re pressed together. When his phone wakes him up, he can still feel Andrew’s hand starfished across his abdomen and a faint exhale across the back of his neck, the sound of soft snores filling his room. 

(He shuts his eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling for a moment longer, but then the hands on his body shift. They’re too harsh, too demanding, crushing his chest and curling around his throat. Tight enough to cut off his words - words that are remembered rather than spoken aloud, his own voice cracked and hollow as he pleads for his life: _please don’t, just let me go.)_

It feels like the entire world stops spinning as he bolts upright, gasping for air, one hand fisted in his sheets as he blinks into the bright afternoon light, the other pulling almost violently on his collar.

The shadows recede slowly this time, inch by mocking inch, wriggling things that he doesn’t dare look too closely at. He knows they’re not monsters of the traditional sort; they possess an assortment of faces and voices and names, equal parts familiar and revolting. Not nearly inhuman enough to be invincible, not nearly human enough to be mortal.

They're dead, but they'll live forever in his memory.

A strange kind of immortality. 

He tries to tell himself that he’s safe here. Logically, he knows that his apartment is empty, but he can’t stop the way his pulse is jackrabbiting in his veins. He paces, checking behind doors and inside closets and even under Kevin’s bed, trying to reassure himself that the threat he feels in his bones isn’t real. He counts the knives in the kitchen drawer and slams it shut when he finds his thumb lingering on the edge of a blade, as though possessed by the very man who tried to break him. 

Who broke him.

But his father is dead. 

And suddenly, Neil is very much alone when he wanders back into his bedroom. It shouldn’t mean anything; he’s been waking up alone for years, but he feels it more acutely when he sees the stack of books for next semester piled on his desk, the laundry on his bathroom floor, the map pinned to his wall.

He doesn’t want to look at it right now, the six pins and six places, but it’s impossible to ignore the pull of its gravity. When he stands in front of it, he traces one finger along the familiar streets until he finds the restaurant from two nights ago, and he picks up another pin. 

(He’s been in this room for too long. His skin is too tight and he doesn’t feel _right,_ but it’s not because of Andrew. Not because of their scene. Not even because he’s alone.)

It’s seven now. Seven places that make this town that much more unbearable to live in. Seven places that could make this place his home, if only he’d let them.

_(You still belong to me, Junior.)_

Before he can make a seventh mistake, he rips the map off of the wall and the pins scatter across the carpet like flower petals.

He should call Andrew. 

(This isn’t his Dom’s responsibility.)

Talking about it could help.

(He doesn’t have the words to make sense of it.)

He could run, then -

And the dark thing in his chest starts to settle.

He could.

Run.

He scrambles to rationalize the urge: running makes him feel like he’s doing something productive, like he’s stopping the breakdown that lingers just out of reach. It stops an omen from turning into an impulse, into a decision, an action, a reaction - he just needs to get out of here and he’ll feel better. 

A change of scenery, a change of pace.

He’ll find a road that splits the horizon in two and he won’t look back until he’s left the past behind.

Sometimes it takes a mile, sometimes ten, sometimes more than that. 

(He knows that eventually, running won’t be enough. There will come a day when he hits his appropriate edge and pushes himself past it into the next town, the next state, the next life. He’ll run until he’s someone else or no one at all, until he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror, until there’s nothing for him to come back for.)

It’s not the best idea, but today, it’s all he has. 

All he’s ever known. 

A single word echoes in time to his own heartbeat, a staccato that cuts through all of his thoughts: _go go go go._

He drags a hand through his hair as he slips out of his room, pulling on a sweatshirt, stumbling through the kitchen in bare feet as he gives himself permission to chase the sun for however long it takes to burn off his restless energy. The soles of his feet stick to the inside of his running shoes when he slips into them sockless, and it’s unpleasant enough to be distracting. He’ll end up with blisters if he goes out like this. 

But that means he has to come back, that he can’t run forever.

He gets as far as the front door before he pauses. Andrew’s jacket is on the kitchen floor where he’d thrown it last night, frustrated with himself for chasing the familiar smell of cigarettes and aftershave in the soft leather.

It’s blocking his path now. 

(It doesn’t mean anything.)

He pushes it aside with the toe of his gym shoe as he grabs his keyring, and that’s what finally makes him stop. 

There’s one for the apartment, one for the mailbox, one for the building. One for the collar around his neck, the spare Andrew had instructed him to keep. They should be feather-light in his hand, but today they feel like stones that he wants to throw into the ocean. He’s tired of being weighed down by these small things that should weigh nothing at all. 

Exhaustion doesn't cut it; defeated feels more accurate. 

He wants to watch the metal of each key glint in the sun as they sink beneath the surface of the Atlantic. He wants to sink with them, to stare up at the black December horizon as light ripples across the waves above. He wants to drown in that silence, to forget everything he’s ever wanted and every person he’s left behind, until he wants nothing and no one at all. 

Because that’s what this comes down to: he can’t handle the feeling of wanting, of needing and hoping and dreaming, when he's been conditioned to not want anything for so long.

(It _hurts.)_

He slumps against the wall across from the door, his keys tumbling out of his open palm as he stares at the jacket, remembering Andrew's intense stare watching him come undone with little more than apathetic disinterest in the bathroom mirror as he counted down from ten.

The jacket doesn’t smell like Andrew anymore, but when Neil presses it against his cheek, the cruelty carved into his skin could almost belong to someone else. The burn on his back, the scars across his throat and along his arms and chest - those all belong to Nathaniel. The bullet wound on his shoulder is Alex’s. The old laceration across his side, crudely stitched by his mother in a gas station bathroom, was for Stefan. 

But the circles under his eyes, the freckles along the side of his neck that Andrew had pressed his lips against, the slope of unmarked skin along the inside of his thigh where calloused thumbs had taken him in hand, the place where no knife or bullet or burn had ever touched - those all belong to Neil. 

And that’s the name he hears fall from Andrew’s lips: _Neil._

The name he chose for himself. 

“Neil.” 

It sounds so real. 

_“Neil.”_

But it’s not Andrew’s voice.

He opens his eyes, and Kevin is standing in their kitchen, staring at him worriedly. The jangle of his keyring hitting the countertop is jarring. 

Neil swallows dryly. This isn’t his best look, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Andrew’s jacket in one hand and sockless shoes on his feet in nothing but boxers and an old sweatshirt. It doesn’t exactly scream _stable_ after he's spent a week alone.

“Hey Kev.” 

“Thea was right. That’s a fucking _collar.”_

Neil winces, mostly because he’d forgotten about Facetiming Thea the day after he’d gotten the collar. 

“Surprise,” he says unenthusiastically. “I guess she won the bet.” 

“We’re going to talk about whatever the fuck that is,” Kevin says, motioning distastefully to Neil’s neck. “But you haven’t answered your phone in like … three days, and you look like shit.” 

It’s a not-question: part accusation, part concern, part frustration.

Neil hates that he can’t shrug this off. Anything he could say to put Kevin at ease would be a lie, and he’s trying to be honest. But honesty is a painful repetition of hard truths, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to handle that today. 

“Don’t say you’re _fine,”_ Kevin cuts him off. He drops his suitcase to the floor and slides down the wall opposite from him. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Neil lies. 

“Sure you weren’t.” 

Kevin throws a balled-up piece of clothing at him, and for a second he’s pretty sure it’s dirty vacation laundry, but when he shakes it out, it’s a pink shirt. With _BEING A PRINCESS IS EXHAUSTING_ written across the front.

“Thea got it for you at Disney,” Kevin explains. “Made me promise I’d wrap it before giving it to you, but once again she forgot that she likes you more than I do. So … looks like it comes as-is. Merry Christmas.”

Neil frowns down at the shirt and kicks his shoes off one by one. Might as well, since he’s clearly not going anywhere now. 

“I got you a mug,” he says. “I might’ve already used it, so it’s in the dishwasher. But … you’ll probably figure out which one it is later.” 

“Thanks,” Kevin says skeptically. Considering the new mug says _world’s okayest roommate,_ he’ll probably take back his thanks once he actually sees it. “So are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to call Andrew?” 

Neil takes a deep breath. “Ialmoststabbedhiscousinwhenheshowedupatmyworkunannounced.”

Kevin shoots Neil a dry look. “You _what?”_

“I might’ve threatened to disembowel Andrew’s cousin. A little bit.”

“You’re an idiot.” 

Neil grins, shaky but relieved that they’re not talking about the things that are actually bothering him.

Kevin prompts him when he doesn’t say anything else. “And?”

“And nothing,” Neil huffs. “I went to Andrew’s family dinner a few days later, stuff happened, he took me home after. No big deal.”

“Stuff. _Stuff?_ Neil, you didn’t -”

“Look, I’m not asking for details about what you and Thea did at Disney, am I? Just … trust me. It was nothing.”

“I’d believe that if I didn’t come home to find you sitting on the hallway floor looking two seconds away from a breakdown.” 

Neil traces the word _PRINCESS_ on his new shirt over and over again. “It was just a couple of bad dreams. Unrelated to that.” 

Dreams that bled into his waking hours, but dreams nonetheless. 

Nightmares. 

Kevin kicks out one leg to tap his shoe against Neil’s knee. “Did you tell him?” 

Neil shakes his head. 

“Are you going to?” 

“No,” he says automatically. “Or - maybe. Eventually? I don’t know, it’s not his problem. I’ll be fine in a day or two.” 

“Look, I know you think I give shitty advice, but I’m going to assume that the collar means he’s your Dom now. Which means you should’ve told him about this days ago. Not next week, not tomorrow. _Yesterday._ And - wait - God, you’re both disasters. I can’t believe I have to ask, but did he even try to check on you?” 

Neil shoves Kevin’s foot away. “He’s not an asshole. He called a few times ... and someone might’ve rung the intercom yesterday, but I didn’t actually check who it was.” 

“Just let him help you, Neil. For fuck’s sake, don’t be so stubborn. Is this about being strong enough to handle everything on your own? I’d ask how that’s working out for you, but from where I’m sitting, you look like shit. You have one week alone and you end up collared and alone and falling apart because you refuse to reach out. One week, Neil. What happens when we graduate? When you get a job somewhere that isn’t Jim’s, or I move in with Thea? You can’t do this forever -” 

“I said it’s not that big of a deal.” 

Kevin gives him a pitiful look. “And if you believe that, the only person you’re lying to is yourself.” 

Neil stares down at his hands, because he doesn’t want to face the truth. He knows he’s not okay, that he needs to figure out whatever is happening inside of his head, but that doesn’t mean he’s lying to himself. It’s not a big deal.

“You were going to leave,” Kevin says firmly. “But you couldn’t, right? That’s why we’re sitting on the floor.” 

After a pause, Neil nods. Kevin knows enough of his past, enough of his bad habits, that there’s no use lying about this particular detail. 

“Why didn’t you?” Kevin asks. 

Neil almost laughs, because there are plenty of reasons to stay. 

He’s Neil Josten. He lives here. He has a Dom and a roommate and more than three-quarters of a college degree to his name. He has an impressive collection of sex toys and lingerie and friends. He has a checkered past, too, but that seems to define him less as time goes on. He gets to choose which words define him now, unlike before. 

A shallow, “Because,” is what comes out instead. It’s too hard to express the rest of it. 

Kevin stands up, but he doesn’t offer Neil a hand up. 

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But don’t act like this doesn’t affect the people around you. I almost came back early because you wouldn’t send a fucking text back for three days, and I barely like you. So if you think Andrew isn’t affected by this, you don’t deserve to wear his collar.”

“Yeah, well, I barely like you too,” Neil says, but Kevin knows what he means. 

And Neil knows that he needs to call Andrew.

\---

A few hours later, Kevin has been relocated to Thea’s apartment for the remainder of the evening, and Neil is alone again. But not for long, because Andrew is on his way over. To _talk_ about things. 

It’s not exactly what Neil wants to do the day after Christmas, but it’s not like he can avoid him forever. So when Andrew’s voice comes through on the intercom, Neil can’t be surprised that he’s not greeted with hello. 

_“You didn’t answer your phone for three days, Josten.”_

Neil sighs. Without comment, he buzzes Andrew into the building. 

It takes a few minutes before he finally knocks, and Neil wastes more time than necessary fiddling with the locks, taking one last deep breath before opening the door.

Andrew looks different than usual. Good different. He’s in black sweatpants and a black backpack and a black hoodie that says _see you in HELL asshole._ He’s got his glasses on again, which Neil has only seen once before at Jean’s bonfire. There’s definitely a pattern to that, he thinks; Andrew looked tired back then, too. 

His expression is completely flat as he waits to be invited in. When Neil finally steps aside, Andrew wordlessly heads towards the kitchen as though he’s been here a thousand times before. It isn’t lost on Neil that this is the first time he’s ever invited someone over who isn’t Kevin or Thea. The first time he’s allowed someone into his space.

It feels weird. 

“You end up taking Nicky and Erik to the airport?” Neil asks, because it’s easier to talk about Andrew’s problems than his own. 

Andrew nods silently, setting his backpack on the counter. He pulls out a tupperware container and takes it with him to sit on the couch. 

It feels a bit like Neil is the one intruding for some reason. 

Again: weird.

Andrew pops the lid open and pulls out a frosted sugar cookie. It’s a small Christmas tree covered in unnaturally green frosting, and he eats it before Neil gets the chance to ask what’s happening. Andrew pulls out another, this one shaped like a gingerbread man and slathered in red frosting, and he holds it out to Neil, who shakes his head.

“Too sweet.” 

Andrew shrugs, bites the head off of it, and pulls an unfrosted cookie out of the box, holding that out instead. 

Neil tries to ignore the ache in his chest as he takes it. Without the frosting, it might be okay. But it’s just a coincidence that Andrew has a cookie that was unfrosted, because Neil doesn’t remember mentioning his tastes before. It doesn’t have to mean anything. 

The knot in his stomach starts to loosen. 

Andrew licks his own fingers clean while staring at Neil, his tongue already stained green and red from the frosting. His eyes lower briefly to Neil’s sweatshirt, and it’s only then that Neil realizes he’s wearing Roland’s borrowed NASA sweatshirt. Thankfully, he put on jeans after his talk with Kevin, so he’s at least a little presentable.

Andrew doesn’t seem to care about his jeans, though. “You were supposed to tell me if things changed.”

That’s putting it bluntly, but Neil shouldn’t expect any less.

He can’t really say anything. Admitting that he’s not okay is out of the question; it’s the kind of truth that hurts to say and hurts to hear, the kind that hurts to carry with him and hurts to let go of. He doesn’t want to burden his Dom with that when Andrew is already clearly not-fine in his own way, for his own reasons. Because of Nicky, because of Aaron, because of Neil. 

Because of things Neil knows nothing about.

No, he can’t put this on Andrew. 

So he takes another gingerbread cookie from the box just to have something to do with his hands, and starts snapping its appendages off one by one.

“Yeah.” 

_Snap. Leg._

Agreeing is safe, since all Andrew had said was the truth: Neil _was_ supposed to tell him if things changed. He’s technically not admitting to anything yet.

“Kevin said no one heard from you for days,” Andrew says.

_Snap. Arm._

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t answer when I called.”

The tiny cookie piece crumbles in his hand when he snaps off the other leg.

_Snap._

“...Yeah.”

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t talk to me, Neil.” 

_Snap. Head._

He knows Andrew is right, but he doesn’t want to admit that; he keeps his _yeah_ to himself this time.

“You said you were fine.” Andrew’s voice is edged with an accusation that Neil probably deserves, but what comes next is so much worse than asking if it was a lie. It’s a painful conclusion that cuts out Neil’s last chance for denial and undermines anything he could try to say to the contrary: “I believed you.”

Neil looks up from the cookie pieces in his lap to find that Andrew isn’t just annoyed; he’s angry. 

And Neil has seen a thousand different shades of anger over his lifetime: anger that comes from pain and destruction and aggression. Reactionary anger, dangerous anger, righteous anger. But this is the sort of anger that’s threaded with betrayal, and the flicker of trust behind Andrew’s gaze would be so easy to snuff out right now with the two words that settle on the tip of his tongue: _I’m fine._

“I was fine,” he manages, and there’s a hell of a lot for Andrew to unwrap in those two words. 

Past tense, for starters. 

Andrew picks up on it. His hand settles in the space between them on the couch, gripping the cushion until his knuckles are white. Probably blaming himself, Neil realizes, if the deep lines on his forehead are any indication. 

“You were,” Andrew repeats, as if rechecking his memories to make sure he didn’t miss some kind of red flag. 

Neil nods, picking up one of the gingerbread arms. He breaks it in half again and again, until it’s nothing but cinnamon-scented dust in his lap. He doesn’t feel like eating anymore, not when he knows that Andrew wants to talk about this, wants to find out what went wrong, wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again. 

“Tell me why I should trust you after that.” 

Neil knows what comes next: _you should’ve answered your phone, you broke the rules, you should’ve let me know sooner, you’re wasting my time, too inexperienced, a shitty sub, useless, fucked up._

They’re variations on a theme, a construct of Andrew’s words built on a foundation of his father’s making. But drawing this kind of parallel isn’t helping. Andrew isn’t jumping to those conclusions; he’s simply giving Neil a chance to explain himself. 

Neil’s throat tightens, his hand instinctively reaching for his collar. He barely manages to stop himself from grabbing the chain, but he does. His fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt instead, pulling until it’s tight around his throat.

For a minute, Andrew doesn’t say anything. He just takes the mess of cookie crumbs from Neil’s lap - the armless, legless torso of a gingerbread man and the pile of cinnamon crumbs - and puts what he can on the coffee table. He brushes the rest onto the carpet, and Neil realizes he’ll probably have to clean that up before Kevin sees it. 

He probably should’ve thought of that before dismembering a cookie over the couch, though. 

When Andrew turns to face him, the early evening sunlight catches in his hair, spills across the left half of his face, casts shadows along the right. 

“Without trust, this doesn’t work.” 

Which is … fair. 

But there’s none of the disgust that Neil expected in Andrew’s voice. Only a sharpness to his tone that makes it clear he isn’t playing games, that he wants a serious answer, that he’s waiting. Listening. 

“I know,” Neil says tonelessly. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Is that _I don’t know what happened,_ or _I don’t know if I’m going to tell you?”_

Neil shrugs. “Both?” 

He can’t allow Andrew to see the cracks that have formed in his armor over the past two days. He doesn’t want to ask Andrew for help with whatever this is - loneliness or burnout or simply an excess of rot, seeping out from wherever he’s left his worst memories to fester in the back of his mind. 

Maybe he’s developed an unhealthy habit of codependency, and he needs to put more space between himself and the people he surrounds himself with. 

Maybe he’s forgotten how to be alone. 

Maybe that’s what Kevin is worried about. 

Maybe it’s dangerous to let Andrew in, but he’s ten seconds away from letting his defenses fall.

“Sometimes,” Neil says, taking a deep breath, “it feels like I’m suffocating.”

“Now?” 

Neil shakes his head no.

Andrew pulls Neil’s hand free from where he’s still pulling his sweatshirt tight around his neck. His fingers settle in the hollow of Neil’s throat against the cat face that hangs from his collar. There’s a flicker of amusement across Andrew’s face as he flicks the bell and it tinkles softly, but it’s there-and-gone in a second, and he slips back into serious concern before Neil can react. 

“Does the collar make it worse?”

Neil doesn’t dare answer that out loud. He doesn’t honestly know the answer to that question, but he doesn’t want Andrew to think he’s not cut out to be his sub, because wearing a collar is something every sub does. It should be the easiest part of submitting, and he definitely doesn’t want Andrew to take his collar back.

So he lets his silence speak for itself. There’s nothing more that he can safely admit that would make this better, and this already feels like it’s pulling apart some barely-healed wound deep inside of himself. He doesn’t want to see what happens when it comes undone. 

Like popping stitches, he knows it won’t be painless.

But that’s probably the whole point.

“I should be stronger than this,” Neil says, and the words are quiet enough that they almost get buried under the sound of the radiator clicking on, the pipes creaking, the building settling. 

And that -

 _That’s_ the truth. 

“Not every sub wears a collar,” Andrew says, and before Neil can object, Andrew slips a small key into his palm. “Our agreement was for you to wear this for a week, and you did that.” 

Neil stares down at the key in his hand and it feels like damnation.

“But I _want_ to wear your collar.” 

Andrew runs a hand through Neil’s hair, roughly tilting his head back so he can look him in the eye. 

“Did I miss the part where I asked what you wanted? Take it off, Neil.” 

Neil does, with shaking fingers, and sets the collar in Andrew’s hand. Unexpectedly, his shoulders loosen slightly. Something about accepting Andrew’s decision is freeing, like all he needs to do now is trust Andrew to make the right decisions for the both of them. 

Andrew’s face is blank when the collar disappears into his pocket. When he leans forward, his hand curls around the back of Neil’s ear, tucking his hair out of the way. His voice is barely above a whisper as he leans in. 

“You have other collars, don’t you? Ones that don’t lock. Go pick one out.” 

And Neil does. He ends up standing in front of his dresser, staring down at the collection of velvet and lace and soft leather, and he grabs the first one that catches his eye. When he settles on the couch again, he sets his chosen collar in Andrew’s hand - a silent request. 

_Put it on for me._

Andrew takes his time buckling him in. The collar is deep purple, leather, with a single crescent moon charm dangling from it. Neil is distracted enough that he almost doesn’t see that Andrew’s backpack has mysteriously relocated from the kitchen to the couch.

“Take off your sweatshirt,” Andrew says, nudging Neil with his knee.

This time, Neil doesn’t move. 

_“Neil.”_

“I thought we weren’t going to do this,” he says, waving his hands in the space between them as if that explains anything.

Andrew can interpret that however he needs to, because Neil can’t say how broken he feels for not being unable to figure this out on his own. All he knows is that he shouldn’t let Andrew help him put the pieces back together. There’s got to be safer ground between them, something smaller that Andrew could do to help forget about the mess inside his head instead of trying to fix it. 

Especially since he doesn’t want to be the one who keeps taking and taking and _taking_ from Andrew without considering the costs. 

But Andrew’s response is cold enough to send a chill down Neil’s spine, because he chooses to interpret Neil’s hesitation in the broadest sense. 

“Am I still your Dom?” 

They’re heavy words, tossed out into the room like grenades as Andrew waits for them to shake some sense into Neil upon impact. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Do you trust me to take care of you?” 

“That’s not why you’re my Dom.”

“And that doesn’t answer my question. If you have something to say, say it.” 

“You didn’t take care of your other subs like this.” 

Andrew’s jaw tenses and he opens his mouth, then shuts it, before giving a curt _no._

Neil accepts that. He knows that this feeling will pass eventually, with or without Andrew’s help. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Andrew adds. “I told you once already, Neil: I protect what’s mine.”

A sick kind of hope rises in his chest, the kind that’s daring and expectant and dangerous.

_Mine._

He wants to ask Andrew to say it again, but neither of them are ready for that, and he’s been learning the shape of Andrew’s moods. He’s been learning to listen more to what’s left unsaid, and even though he’s struggling to learn this new language, it’s starting to make sense. He’s been making mistakes and misconjugating verbs and splitting infinitives, but this time he doesn’t need a flashing neon sign to figure it out. 

_Mine._

“You want this,” Neil says slowly.

“I want to make you feel good,” Andrew clarifies. 

The certainty in his tone unsettles Neil as much as it reassures him. He doesn’t know what happens next, but he wants to find out.

Andrew unzips his backpack and pulls out a thin length of rope, dyed midnight-blue, and sets it across Neil’s lap before he tosses a condom on top of it. 

“These are all things you said you wanted before,” Andrew says. “Ropes. Cockwarming. Humiliation.” 

Before Andrew can explain exactly what’s on offer, Neil is nodding. “I still want that.”

“Then take your sweatshirt off,” Andrew says.

Neil does as he’s told, and the air is cool against his skin. Curious fingers trail over the scars on his arm, full of cautious intent as Andrew examines his wrist, his palm, his hand. Neil still doesn’t understand what’s happening, but it probably doesn’t matter since Andrew’s touch relaxes him in ways that he doesn’t understand. 

Andrew picks up the rope, uncoiling it slowly into Neil’s lap. 

“Color,” he says quietly as he holds the tail end to the inside of Neil’s left wrist, positioning it until the center is aligned perfectly with the tendons beneath his skin. Andrew stops, his eyes finding Neil’s, waiting for an answer. 

For permission.

“Green, Sir,” Neil says. 

“Hold this,” Andrew instructs him, and Neil’s fingers close around the loop of rope pressed against his skin.

The working end of the rope gets tucked through the loop, wrapped around the outside of his wrist. Andrew pulls it taught before Neil can figure out how the knot works.

“Ringbolt hitch,” Andrew says when he sees Neil watching, repeating the process with deliberate slowness. “Used to practice this on myself. It’s not for bondage.”

Neil watches as Andrew continues with the rope, forming hitch after hitch along the inside of his arm. With each additional twist of the rope, Neil’s skin disappears until his entire wrist is covered. Andrew’s work isn’t tight, but there isn’t enough give for the rope to slip out of place. It’s deliberate, Neil thinks, like most of what Andrew does. 

When he flexes his muscles, the rope is forgiving against his skin. 

“What’s it made of?” He asks, tracing the rope with his free hand.

“Hemp.”

Andrew bats Neil’s hand away, his sentences each separated by an additional hitch around Neil’s forearm, carefully working his way down. 

“That’s because it’s old. I don’t use it for restraints anymore. I usually only use it for practicing knots.”

Neil walks his fingers along the pattern that begins to emerge along his skin, and Andrew doesn’t stop him this time.

“Or for decoration,” Neil says.

He likes the word. _Decoration._ It’s also quite precise; Andrew clearly isn’t trying to restrain him. 

There’s a pleasant quiet as he works, and a passivity to their exchange. Neil feels his breathing slow as his body relaxes into the predictability of Andrew’s steady movements. 

When Andrew ties off the rope before Neil’s elbow, Neil flexes his arm a couple of times, appreciating the way the rope tightens, forming a barrier over the burns and scars along his skin and effectively erasing them from view.

Andrew pulls Neil’s arm back in his lap for inspection, tugging at one or two spots, pressing the rope flat, slipping two fingers underneath the curve of Neil’s wrist to make sure his circulation isn’t being cut off.

“It looks nice,” Neil says. 

Andrew’s expression shifts from concentration to boredom as he lets go of Neil’s arm, apparently satisfied with his work. 

“Anything tingling?” 

“No, Sir.”

Andrew tears open the condom. 

“I don’t trust you,” he says.

Neil freezes; it isn’t what he expected, not after being carefully wrapped in Andrew’s softest rope. Then again, he can’t object to Andrew not trusting him; he’s a born liar, unable to fault anyone with enough instinct to see through his deception. Still, it hurts to hear because he doesn’t try to lie to his Dom. That doesn't mean the truth comes easily to him.

For a moment, he wonders how different his life would be in this moment if everyone who’d dared touch him had treated him with Andrew’s kind of tenderness instead of violence. He wonders who he’d be: Nathaniel, Neil, or someone completely different? 

Andrew wipes two fingers along the rim of the condom, collecting lube on his fingertips that he rubs together. 

“You don’t have to trust me to fuck me,” Neil says defensively, hoping this doesn’t mean their scene is already over, hoping this isn’t what Andrew meant by humiliation because it's a little too close to home.

“I meant that I don’t trust you not to come,” Andrew deadpans, frowning down at the condom in his palm. “But we can talk about your allergy to the truth if you’d rather.”

Neil can feel his face heating up in embarrassment, but it only fuels Andrew’s amusement more. Neil shakes his head, and Andrew pulls on the rope around his wrist until it digs into his skin. 

“We could talk about how much you want me to fuck you, then,” Andrew offers, and the derision in his tone makes it clear they're going to do nothing of the sort. “That’s what you really want, right? Not just my fingers, or my mouth, or my tongue. You want -”

Neil shivers, trying his best not to let his growing arousal show. He shifts in his seat, but Andrew is far too observant to miss it.

“- more than that,” he says flatly, his hand now working its way up Neil’s bicep, an excruciating pace that leaves Neil’s stomach in knots. “I could have you in pieces, begging for release like every other sub I’ve fucked, because you clearly want me to treat you like them. We could be a one-night-only kind of deal, where I fuck you and come on your back and throw you a towel to clean up alone. You want me to walk out while you’re still shivering from the sudden rush of adrenaline, too weak to stand without your knees giving out. You want me to be cruel because you’re chasing the crash that comes after. You _want_ me to humiliate and hurt you because that’s the kind of pain you can make sense of, the kind of pain you can control. The kind you want to drown out the pain you feel here.” 

Andrew sets his hand on Neil's neck, his thumb skirting his collar bones and dipping into the place over Neil's throat where the thin scar that his father's axe has faded almost completely into nothing.

But that's the memory that haunts him, and somehow, Andrew is picking up on whatever clues Neil is unwittingly revealing. Everything he said is entirely too accurate.

Neil uncrosses his legs to adjust himself in his pants, torn between wanting Andrew to psychoanalyze him or fuck him or both, but Andrew catches one of his ankles and pulls Neil forward until he’s straddling his lap. 

“You want me to fuck you like this?” Andrew growls, his grip digging into the muscle of Neil’s back right above his hip. “You look like you’re enjoying this a bit too much, princess, but we’ve barely started.” 

Neil almost doesn’t register the words coming out of Andrew’s mouth, not when he’s being pulled further into Andrew’s lap, not when he’s able to feel Andrew’s own erection pressing against the underside of his thigh, imagining the weight of it inside of himself.

But Andrew’s words are derisive and harsh and Neil _melts_ when he finally registers them. He barely stops himself from asking Andrew to say it all again. 

“You’re a tease,” Neil says, already dizzy with anticipation. He forgets to add Sir, and doesn’t bother with it once he realizes his mistake.

Andrew tugs the rope around Neil’s wrist firmly, glaring at him. 

“What was that?” 

“I said you’re a tease.” 

He’s struggling to stay in control, especially when Andrew rubs one hand along his thigh, slow circles that start small and begin growing in size until his fingers skirt the edges of Neil’s stomach, the crease of his hip. 

“Disappointing,” Andrew says as he hooks his fingertips into one of the belt loops on Neil’s jeans. “You only have a few rules to follow, and it would be a shame if I had to stop already because you broke one.” 

He rubs one finger along the trail of skin beneath Neil’s shirt, which makes Neil’s breath hitch. 

“I told you I wanted to make you feel good,” Andrew says. “Is that what you still want?” 

Neil shuts his eyes and nods, far too desperate to care about appearances anymore. He isn’t sure what Andrew has planned, but he wants all of it: whatever Andrew will give him, on whatever terms Andrew sets. Andrew knows his limits, and Neil trusts him enough to stop when asked if anything changes. 

“Then do you want to rephrase what you said?” Andrew asks.

Neil lets out a breath when he feels Andrew’s fingers inch up the side of his thigh, slipping under the hem of Neil’s jeans. That alone shouldn’t elicit a reaction from him, but his hips stutter forwards and he can’t help the way his back arches slightly.

He’s too easy for Andrew to crack. That’s the real problem here - he should be playing this game longer, making it more difficult for Andrew to take him apart, but he’s desperate for more right now and he can’t help himself.

Cooperation comes easily, even if it’s not entirely genuine.

“You’re a tease. _Sir."_

“Good boy,” Andrew says quietly, biting Neil’s neck and unzipping Neil’s jeans in one fluid motion. 

Time seems to blur when Andrew takes him in his hand, and Neil hasn’t felt this good. Ever. But he can’t focus on the overwhelming sensations when Andrew’s voice rumbles low in his ear.

“I always assumed you wanted to test me.” 

And that’s more confusing than it is helpful; Neil’s stomach clenches when Andrew tightens his fingers around the base of his cock, almost to the point of pain, and it has Neil panting. 

“What?” 

Andrew takes his hand out of Neil’s pants and drags his fingers along the line of Neil’s jaw, slipping two into his mouth to force him to taste himself - salt, sweat, skin and soap and precum. It’s more than a little disgusting, but Neil lets his jaw fall slack, taking more of Andrew’s fingers every time he swallows. 

And Andrew doesn’t let Neil _breathe._ He presses the pads of his fingers into the base of Neil’s tongue, spit-coated and rough and tasting faintly of lube from the forgotten condom in a way that almost makes Neil gag. 

As if he knows exactly how far is too far, Andrew pulls his fingers out at the last second and smacks Neil’s hip sharply. The pain distracts him from the ragged breaths as he swallows around nothing. 

“That was a question,” Andrew reminds him.

Neil doesn’t know what the hell Andrew is talking about anymore. He needs Andrew’s fingers - around his cock, down his throat, pressing into him slowly, inch by inch - and he doesn’t care how it happens. He needs Andrew’s touch, and the longer Andrew sits back to observe him, the more certain Neil is that this is somehow another repeat of what happened in the restaurant bathroom. 

With Andrew challenging him not to come. 

With Neil being unable to stop himself. 

With humiliation. 

And, God, that’s all he wants right now. He tries to steady himself, but Andrew pulls on the rope around his wrist until it’s digging into his skin, and Neil can’t decide which sensations he should be focused on anymore. 

“Sir,” he whines, his voice coming out far too needy for it to be dignified. He passed that point a long time ago, apparently. He wants Andrew to put him on his knees between his thighs, to finally see Andrew’s cock, because he’s a little jealous that he hasn’t seen it yet.

“I want to test you again,” Andrew mumbles, his words tickling the hair on the nape of Neil’s neck as he breathes them against his skin. “I think that would be fun.”

Neil doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t think they have the same definition of fun, but he wants to find out. He wants Andrew to test him, to push his self-control to its limit and beyond. He wants to be humiliated again, until tears stream down his cheeks and breathless sobs catch in his throat and he forgets about everything else. 

He goes pliant in Andrew’s hands, his eyes closed, and lets himself sink into the floating feeling as his forehead rests against Andrew’s shoulder. He flexes his fingers, and Andrew must catch the motion out of the corner of his eye because he doesn’t turn his head when he says, “Color.” 

“Green, Sir,” Neil says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels the cold glide of latex against his own cock, which is confusing. 

Andrew’s touch lingers as he draws out the motion of smoothing the condom along Neil’s entire length once, twice, three times. It’s completely unnecessary, but he’s careful, giving Neil enough attention that it becomes clear that he’s not going to let him off easy. 

“Andrew,” Neil says, already a crack in his resolve. His body is twelve steps ahead, though, already working towards an end Neil isn’t ready for yet.

“Cockwarming,” Andrew repeats. “Your cock, my mouth.” 

And _fucking hell,_ it’s supposed to be the other way around. Neil isn’t going to survive being inside of Andrew’s mouth when he’s already this keyed up. 

He’s just _not._

Cockwarming isn’t supposed to be Andrew on his knees, but when Andrew slips out from under him and settles Neil onto the couch cushions, it’s becoming blatantly clear that is the exact direction they’re heading towards. 

“Neil,” Andrew says quietly, nothing but cold precision in his voice as he settles on the floor between Neil’s knees. “Yes or no.”

And when he looks up at Neil through his lashes, hazel eyes clear and unforgiving, it might as well already be over. Neil suppresses a shudder. He can’t win this, and it was stupid to think he could. If he comes, that isn’t cockwarming; it’s just an unenthusiastic blowjob.

He takes a deep breath, trying to will himself into a lower state of arousal, but Andrew teases his fingers along the inside of his thigh and it has the opposite effect. 

“Yes,” Neil breathes. 

“You make this so easy for me,” Andrew chides, pushing Neil’s knees apart roughly until there’s more enough space for him to settle without feeling the warmth of Neil’s thighs closing in around him. 

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Then Andrew’s hand pulls Neil’s jeans down to his ankles, his thumb coming back up to dip into the space below Neil’s navel before tucking into the crease of his hip, pinning him in place. 

“Don’t move,” Andrew reminds him one last time. “Don’t touch me. And don’t come without permission.”

And then he swallows Neil down without hesitation. The sensation is overwhelming and hot and wet, even through the extra layer of protection blunting the finer details of Andrew’s mouth. Still, he can feel Andrew’s molars, the press of his tongue along the underside of his cock. Andrew hums deep in his throat when Neil shifts slightly to get more comfortable. Probably a reminder for him to stay still, and he does. 

For a moment, Andrew looks fucking _gone._ He’s just as wrecked as Neil, his hand digging into Neil’s thigh just past the edge of too hard as he keeps Neil pinned. Despite the pressure reminding him to stay put, Neil still struggles against the urge to buck his hips up into the warmth of his mouth. It would be so easy for him to press into Andrew more, to wrap his thighs on either side of his head and curl his fingers through Andrew’s hair and thrust forwards, but he can’t. 

As much as he wants Andrew to move, as much as he wants to pull Andrew’s head closer so he can slide himself deeper down his throat, he knows he won't. This isn’t about that. 

This is about control. 

Or something like that, he thinks. 

It’s about Andrew being in control. Maybe? He's pretty sure this is usually the other way around, but he's not going to argue when it feels this good. 

He lets go of that train of thought because he’s already on the verge of doing something stupid like moaning Andrew’s name and begging him to fucking _move._ Instead, he watches the curve of Andrew’s throat when he swallows, the way the light across one half of his face deepens the shadows across the other. Neil watches him, panting as he struggles to ground himself against the realization that this is so much more than it seems on the surface. 

Because this might not be about control at all.

It's about trust.

Except it's a little late to realize that, since his cock is already in Andrew’s mouth. Neil groans, realizing just how much Andrew is giving him right now.

But when Andrew moves, his gaze catching Neil’s for just a second, and Neil swears he’s smirking up at him. Or he would be, if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. Ever so slightly, he presses his tongue to the underside of Neil’s shaft. It almost tickles, but he still doesn’t lift his head up, doesn’t give a fucking inch as he rests in place between Neil's thighs. But after a minute, Neil starts to relax, keeping his mind as blank as possible until he’s only half-hard. It takes all of his focus, but he manages it.

And once he gets to that point, it’s almost easy to ignore the overwhelming sensations and forget that he’s inside of Andrew’s mouth right now, forget how he’s being given everything and nothing all at once. 

Andrew only lets him hover in the in-between for a little while, though. Too soon, he swallows suddenly around Neil, repeating the motion several times as he lets whatever fucking magic he keeps under his tongue drag Neil unwittingly towards the edge of an orgasm without lifting off of him once.

Neil chokes on his own moan, feeling himself getting completely hard again, but Andrew doesn’t let up. He swallows again, presses his nose into the curls of hair around the base of Neil’s cock, inhales deeply through is nose as he takes every fucking inch like a champ. 

And only then does he finally take his hand off of Neil’s hip, slowly reaching down between his own legs to press the heel of his palm against himself deeply, keeping his eyes on Neil the entire time.

It’s too much. 

It’s _you did this to me._

It’s _don’t you dare come yet._

Every one of Neil’s nerves is keyed up as he gulps down air, and he isn’t going to be able to keep this up for much longer at this rate, especially watching Andrew palm himself through his sweats, knowing he's the cause of the very smallest indication that Andrew, too, might feel the same. He tilts his head back, his arms now spread-eagled across the back of the sofa as he stares up at the ceiling and tries not to let this be the end. 

He doesn’t know how much more he can take, but Andrew seems to think he can last, so Neil doesn’t ask for permission to come yet. Plus, he doesn’t really care if it happens. Andrew’s the one who used a condom because he doesn’t trust Neil - meaning he has as much faith in Neil’s self-control as Neil does, especially after the bathroom - so there’s no real consequence if it happens, other than whatever consequence Andrew can think up. 

_“Fuck,”_ Neil whines, feeling himself go slack-jawed as Andrew’s breath tickles the trail of hair along his stomach. “Fuck, Andrew, your mouth -”

There’s nowhere safe for that sentence to go. Andrew lets out a heavy, self-satisfied exhale, and when he looks up at Neil, his eyes aren’t as vindictive as they were ten minutes ago. They’re more wanting, more demanding, more insistent. 

It’s a challenge that Neil can’t quite read, almost like Andrew _wants_ him to come like this. But he doesn’t want to break these rules tonight, and coming from Andrew’s mouth alone would probably stroke Andrew’s ego too much, so Neil is going to play by the rules for as long as he can. He lets his head roll back, and it feels like he’s sinking when he shuts his eyes. His entire body feels weighed down as he stops trying to make sense of what he's feeling, until his entire body is too heavy to lift, his very muscles turned to stone as he gives himself over to Andrew completely. 

Like this, he doesn’t need to tread to keep his head above water anymore. Instead of being terrified of being dragged under, he’s okay with the heavy and foreign feeling keeping him pleasantly on-edge, keyed-up and effortlessly wrung out. He’s okay with letting his lungs fill with water when he inhales, and he’s okay with the way his fingertips seem to reach into the darkness that surrounds him when he closes his eyes again and sighs against the constancy of Andrew’s mouth.

It feels like the shadows have come to claim him as their own and take him home, but he’s not afraid of them when they take this familiar shape. 

There’s an ebb and flow to his arousal and for now, he’s successfully holding back. He listens to the sound of Andrew’s deep breathing, relishes in the fact that his Dom is being forced to drink in air through his nose because his throat is closed around Neil’s cock. He sinks impossibly deeper into Andrew’s mouth, as though Andrew is trying to take more of him even though he already has everything there is to have. 

It’s needy, demanding, exacting. 

When Andrew pulls off slowly a moment later, his lips are wet with spit and lube, and Neil’s only a little disappointed his own precum isn’t smeared across Andrew’s chin right now.

“Color?” He asks. 

“Sir,” Neil says, unable to find the right words to say _more_ without sounding needy and wrecked.

He doesn’t know if he can take much more, but he wants to try. Andrew still has one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, slowly working up and down to keep him uncomfortably aroused as he waits for an actual response.

“I need a color,” Andrew repeats.

Neil’s getting close now that Andrew is properly stroking him. The touch borders on painful when Andrew’s nails dig into the curve of his thigh, hopefully leaving behind marks - little red half-moons that Neil is desperate to admire later. 

And that’s when his wires start to cross. He's trying to say green, but that means he’s okay and he isn’t. Or he wasn't.

Isn't. 

He doesn't know.

That’s the whole reason he asked Andrew to come over, the whole reason he’s falling apart, the whole reason he’s practically begging for this right now. And he can’t pick a color it because all of them feel insincere. All he knows is that if Andrew stops right now, Neil might actually cry. 

Neil can't say anything, because he's not okay and he doesn't want Andrew to know but it's blatantly obvious from the look on Andrew's face that Neil isn't hiding it well anymore. Maybe he thinks Neil isn’t strong enough for this. Maybe he’s going to stop the scene and force Neil to talk about his feelings, and _fuck_ Neil doesn’t want to do that when he’s struggling to stop himself from coming across Andrew’s black sweatpants. And why the fuck is Andrew always wearing black? God, the _stains._

It’s probably a red flag that Neil would rather focus on Andrew's wardrobe choices than face his internal meltdown, but he can’t sort out the panic-laced thoughts running through his mind when he’s simultaneously so close and so far from feeling _right_ for the first time in days. 

Andrew's hand stops moving.

“Do you need to come?”

Neil almost does cry, then, because that's exactly what he wants.

“Yes, Sir."

He gasps when Andrew presses one finger along the underside of his cock, dragging painfully along the soft skin there as he watches Neil's expression shift. 

“Then come for me,” Andrew says, pulling the condom off. 

It would be wrong to say that one touch is all it takes to break something inside of Neil, because it’s so much more than the perfect blend of pain and arousal that makes him come undone when Andrew wraps his fingers around his cock for the last time. It’s the dinner with Nicky. It’s the Maserati and Andrew taking back his collar, the apartment that’s been too empty for an entire week and the lights he can’t turn on in the bathroom. The mirrors. The blood. The nightmares, the memories, the ghosts that haunt the darkest corners of his mind. 

His dead father. 

His uncle. 

The deal he made to survive. 

It’s all of the things he shouldn’t be thinking about right now, and it’s his trust in Andrew to take all of his pieces and hold them together until he’s able to do it on his own again. 

_That’s_ all it takes for the dam to finally burst. 

A year, a decade, a lifetime’s worth of pain splits him open as he sobs Andrew’s name and comes, hard and hot and heavy as his muscles tense over and over again, never quite finding the right kind of relief as he waits for the usual high that comes after an orgasm to wipe away his worries for a few minutes.

It never comes. Andrew strokes him through it wordlessly, and when Neil finally looks up expecting an apathetic expression, he gets a glimpse of something more. For a second, Andrew’s brows are almost knitted together, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his face flushed as he drags out the last few shuddering breaths from Neil’s orgasm. 

This time, he doesn’t need to feel Andrew’s arousal to know it’s there, but Andrew ignores it.

 _Permission._ The word echoes in the back of his mind, but his tongue is too big for his mouth when he tries to figure out how to make it come out. 

“Let me,” Neil ultimately says, trying to make it clear what he means, one of his hands gesturing clumsily towards Andrew’s sweats. 

Andrew freezes. He might be considering the weight of Neil’s hands, the rope still tied around Neil’s wrist. He might be testing the seams of his boundaries as he sorts through his options and guesses which one would be the riskiest. He frowns at his hand, the one that’s still coated in Neil’s cum, but doesn’t move to wipe it off.

“No.” 

And Neil supposes that’s that. Disappointing, but simple.

He moves to make room for Andrew on the couch, to give him space, but Andrew’s (clean) hand curls around his wrist to hold him in place. 

Very slowly, he settles on the couch next to Neil. The cushions sink under his weight until their thighs are pressed together, albeit through several layers of clothing. Neil can feel the sharp line of tension of Andrew’s body against his own. He opens his mouth to ask if this is okay, but Andrew cuts him off with a warning. 

“Don’t,” he says.

Neil can see the resolve in his eyes, the way he inspects Neil’s expression carefully as he settles into place. Almost like he’s grounding himself, giving himself permission to listen to whatever impulse is telling him not to leave. He isn’t tense because his mind has changed - he's tense because his mind is already made up. 

“I’m allowed to ask for your safeword,” Neil reminds him, because that’s probably the one thing he _does_ understand right now.

Reluctantly, Andrew rolls his eyes.

“Green,” he says, right before he lifts his hand - the one still coated in Neil’s cum - and slips it into his waistband. 

_I would do it better,_ Neil thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. There’s a fully-body shudder as Andrew begins to stroke himself, and Neil feels like he hasn’t earned this amount of trust, this amount of intimacy, despite the fact that he was literally inside of Andrew’s mouth just minutes ago.

Maybe Andrew doesn’t know how to do this any better than Neil does. 

That could be a good thing. 

Or a terrible thing. 

For whatever reason, Andrew allows him these fleeting moments, and Neil knows better than to reach out or offer to help when Andrew jerks himself off roughly. He doesn’t make a sound after that, choosing to instead glare at Neil while he works himself over. Something akin to annoyance flickers behind his eyes as he gets closer to the edge. Neil can feel the waves of tension collecting in Andrew’s body as his thighs tense, and Andrew tilts his head back against the couch, his mouth finally falling open as he lets out a ragged breath. 

It’s ruthless. Andrew’s pace doesn’t let up, like he doesn’t dare give himself the chance to back out now that he’s gotten this far. Neil wonders if this is what it’s always like for Andrew, but he’s too caught up in the way the tendons on Andrew’s neck strain against pale skin to ask. 

Andrew keeps his eyes open the entire time, watching Neil as though he’s an anchor to stay tied to the present, a reminder that this isn’t some early-morning wet dream, that it’s not a nightmare, not a mistake, not a fantasy. It can’t get more real than their shared body heat, or using Neil’s cum as lube. Every one of his harsh exhales sounds like music compared to his usually silent demeanor. 

This moment belongs to Neil, and he wants to remind Andrew of that fact for some reason. 

“Say my name,” he says. It’s cheesy and stupid, but he thinks Andrew is actually getting close now. He wants to hear the hitch in Andrew’s voice as he stumbles over his name when he comes, but Andrew doesn’t look amused by the suggestion. 

“Shut up,” he grits out, narrowing his eyes.

Neil only grins back at him, and he almost doesn’t realize Andrew is coming then because he does it in complete silence, his face entirely unchanged. As it is, the only reason Neil notices anything is because Andrew’s arm stills and he slowly relaxes into the couch, his eyes finally sliding shut as he breathes out a long, low sigh. 

They don’t rush after that. Andrew eventually pulls his hands out of his sweatpants and lifts his fingers to Neil’s mouth for him to lick the sticky mess of their cum off of his fingers, one by one, until his palm is spit-slick but relatively clean. 

Neil doesn’t need to be told to stay put when Andrew stands up, and he settles into the corner of the couch as Andrew disappears into the bathroom, letting his fingers trail one last time across the back of Neil’s neck. 

He’s gone long enough that Neil starts to doze, and when Andrew settles back down next to him a while later, he tucks his feet under Neil’s thighs. It simultaneously bridges a gap and keeps some distance between them. His movements are lazy and exhausted, but still tense.

“You okay?” He asks Neil, as though it takes effort to speak. 

“Green, Sir,” Neil says automatically. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Andrew tells him. 

Neil doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to deal with everything he’s been avoiding. As raw as he feels right now, he knows the truth will gut him.

He wonders, briefly, what it would feel like to fall apart. If the urge to let go is destructive or healing. 

His voice is quiet when he asks, “Does it matter?” 

Andrew’s lighter, appearing almost out of nowhere, clicks once before he flips it shut, an unlit cigarette in his other hand. He holds it up towards the ceiling, blinking slowly as if he’s watching for trails of phantom smoke. All of the lights in the apartment are off, Neil realizes, which didn’t matter earlier. But it’s starting to get late now, and he can’t see past the shadows that are beginning to creep into the spaces between them, clawing up the sleeves of Andrew's shirt, gathering around his neck.

Instinct tells Neil to reach out and touch Andrew, to make sure that he’s real, but he stays perfectly still. There’s probably an explanation for that urge, a reason that would make sense if Neil could focus on it long enough, but he’s too unmoored to figure it out right now. 

“It matters to me,” Andrew says. 

Neil watches the cigarette in Andrew’s hand, feeling himself slip into the abyss that grows closer every time he blinks. All he wants is to stay still and small and silent, and the urge to never move from this exact spot ever again is overwhelming in a way that he’s unfamiliar with.

He shuts his eyes, knowing that Andrew is keeping a silent vigil next to him. Probably watching the rise and fall of his chest, or tracing the path of the fading sunset across the far kitchen wall.

“Neil."

He wants to cringe away from that name, wants to crawl back into whatever hole he’s sinking into, but Andrew’s fingers start to unwind on the rope from around his arm. It’s slow, methodical work, and Neil’s head tilts to the side, his eyelids drifting open just as the last coils come undone. Andrew’s fingers aren’t gentle, but they’re careful all the same. They don’t linger on his scars, they don’t draw shapes into his skin or magically transfer his confidence.

They’re just steady hands, and that’s all Neil needs right now. 

When Andrew has the last of the rope off, there’s a shift in the room. It isn’t business as usual. Briefly, Andrew traces the indentations along the inside of Neil’s forearm, his fingerprints leaving invisible marks across the uneven skin when he fits his hand around Neil’s wrist. 

He’s giving them both permission to have this one moment of cautious closeness, and Neil can't help the next words come out of his mouth. 

“Why bother asking? You already know the answer.” 

He hates how petulant that sounds, hates how he can’t shake the feeling that something more serious is going wrong here, hates how he knows Andrew is trying, hates how he can’t just say the stupid fucking words like everyone else.

“Because the day that you answer is the day you finally tell me the truth,” Andrew says.

“It’s not that easy.” 

Andrew's response is almost immediate. “I never said it was.” 

And that’s not what Neil wants to hear. He wants Andrew to tell him that he’s unbroken, that he’s normal, that he’s _fine,_ but he knows that he’s none of those things. 

He’s far from okay. 

He probably hasn’t been okay in a long time. 

He shouldn’t have to deal with this after a scene. He wishes his thoughts were easier to silence, easier to ignore, that his problems weren't so big. 

All he wants is to be a part of this particular version of the world for a little while longer, the version that’s tinged with South-Carolina-sunset orange. He wants a world where Andrew can give him words that he can hold onto, words to comfort him when he’s lying alone in bed at night, instead of words that shake his foundations. He wants an anchor for when he feels like his life will amount to nothing, will amount to less than his father said it would.

He wants someone to hold onto when he’s wondering if this is the best he’ll ever get, the best he’ll ever be. And he wants this to be enough, even though he knows it never will be.

But worst of all, even though he knows he’ll never say yes, he wants someone to ask him to stay. To tell him that all of this - the frustration, the confusion, the ambivalence and the painful construction of trust out of thin fucking air - that it will all be worth it in the end. He wants to believe it, too, but he can't. 

So when Andrew trails his fingers down Neil’s arm one last time and it shatters something in his heart, he doesn’t say a word about it. He bears that pain under the expectation that it makes all of this more real. 

There’s something fucked up about that, Neil thinks, but neither of them are particularly good with words, so he holds his palm face up, asking for more. 

_Do your worst._

Andrew threads their fingers together and that, somehow, hurts even worse. 

It shouldn’t be this hard to let someone in. 

But it is. 

This is why he ran in the first place - he and his mom - all those years ago. There was nothing in Baltimore worth saving, nothing left of Nathaniel for him to carry into his next life except for the blood coursing through his veins, the stubborn heartbeat and unyielding rush of adrenaline that whispered to him: _keep running._ He’s fought this feeling for so long that he doesn’t want to admit that it’s taken over his life, because it's all he has left of his former self. Letting go of it feels like defeat, like he's damning the boy he used to be to obscurity. 

And he can't do that, because that would make him no better than his father, who looked at Nathaniel and felt the same kind of disgust Neil feels when he thinks about his younger self. For different reasons, but still. 

Disgust. 

He doesn’t owe Andrew this truth.

He can survive this night on his own, like every other one before, but he’s getting more and more tired with every passing day. He doesn’t know how much longer he’s meant to do this. A few months. A year. Maybe long enough to get his diploma. 

Eventually, he’s going to give up the fight and become Nathaniel again. Become his father’s shadow.

Because he can’t be Neil and Nathaniel at the same time. Because he can't let go of the person he used to be, but he can't hold on any longer, either.

Nathaniel is unforgiving and temperamental and impermanent, unable to stay in one place long enough to settle. He’s immature and underdeveloped, eternally trapped in the mindset of a scared child, and Neil - 

Neil is tired.

Neil is worse.

He’s lost, and he doesn’t know how to fix that. He wants his freedom but wouldn’t know what to do with it if he got it.

He’s still Neil right now when he stares at Andrew, but he's a little bit Nathaniel, too. 

Nathaniel will be the one who leaves. Nathaniel won't fight for any of this. 

But Neil wants to try.

He wants to stay. 

But he can’t say that aloud without sounding unhinged, can’t even open his fucking mouth, and he’s disappointed with himself. Or Nathaniel. And for a moment, he doesn’t know if there’s enough of a distinction between the two for it to even matter because he wants this to be over, he _needs_ this to be over. Andrew’s presence is suddenly heavy, and nothing about this room feels like home anymore and it's all _wrong._

It feels like being trapped in the trunk of a car, his bloodied nails clawing at a plastic tail light in a desperate attempt to escape. It feels like Lola’s forearm pinning him against the ground, cutting off his oxygen. It feels like hot terror coursing through his veins and Andrew’s hand intertwined with his own becomes synonymous with an inescapable fate that sinks its talons into weak, human flesh as Nathaniel smothers a scream while his father’s knife cuts across his chest. 

He’s gulping down air like it’s water, feeling his lungs expand and contract in quick succession, and each breath tears through him, cracking apart his ribs one by one until his heart is a whole bloody mess for Andrew to pick out of the broken chasm of his body, his bloodstained fingers dipping into the pulverized organic matter that used to be Neil Josten, that used to be Nathaniel Wesninski, and it feels beautiful -

It feels magnificent to die. 

Nathaniel has felt like the dark side of Neil’s moon for a long time, but tonight he’s all velvet-black and night-sky and it’s seven kinds of fucked up that whoever he is right now isn’t running from the promise of destruction in his veins when he lets go of Andrew’s hand and says _make it stop._

Nathaniel is digging around underneath Neil’s skin.

Or Neil is digging around underneath Nathaniel’s. 

No. 

It’s definitely Nathaniel trying to claw his way out, and he’ll tear Neil to shreds for a taste of freedom, as if freedom was a thing Nathaniel knew to begin with. 

Then again, once upon a time, Neil didn’t know freedom either. 

In this way, no matter who Neil is, he's hopelessly lost. And in this way, he and Nathaniel want exactly the same thing: to stay lost. 

But he can’t live like this anymore. 

He just wants to find a place to call home amongst the prehistoric ferns that grow just beyond the edges of every South Carolina highway. He wants to learn how to fold himself into the dark crevices that shelter craggy weeds in asphalt deserts until his memories can't hurt him.

And when he can’t stay here anymore, when his demons chase him from this place, he wants to leave pieces of his story behind, the worst of his past nestled safely into the crown of dead laurel oak leaves that blanket the forest floor this time of year. He wants to watch his words scatter like sun-bleached bones along the crests and peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains, softened by rainwater until they’re harmlessly decomposing under the heavy hand of time, until their component vowels and consonants are hardly recognizable to an unaccustomed ear. He wants to bleed his nightmares dry into a waterfall and watch everything he was, everything he is, everything he could one day become, get swept away with the swift moving waters. 

He wants to watch his secrets grow fat on these rolling, grassy hills, and he wants to watch his lies flutter away on a soft spring breeze over Lake Marion. He wants to watch new life spring up from the remnants of every regret he carries, green shoots peeking out from between boulders until his very existence has soaked into the rain-worn granite and limestone peaks of the South Carolina horizon.

He wants to become a fossil of the boy that once lived in his body all those lifetimes ago, because it’s been decades since he felt like a Wesninski. Decades since he felt like he was whole, like he was someone worth protecting, someone worth coming back for.

Most of all, he wants Andrew to write his name in the stars over this landscape - any name will do, really, just as long as it means _mine_ and takes the shape of the person Neil is slowly becoming, made razor-sharp by the cruelty of his father and the caution of his mother and the desperation of his own brittle soul. He wants to watch as the shards of his broken self fleck the sky like shattered glass, and his own new glittering constellations will tell a different story than the ones of old. 

But he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to ask Andrew to find a place for him in this cosmic mess. He doesn’t know if that would be akin to spitting in the face of god, to think that one person could build him a home among the stars when he can’t even find one here on earth. 

Neil shuts his eyes. He doesn’t know why it feels right, but it does. And then he opens them and Andrew is staring back at him, expression guarded as if he’s afraid Neil is about to do something stupid, and Neil feels like it all makes sense in some formless way that he can’t quite articulate. 

Maybe Andrew is right to be guarded against an arrogant attraction like this. 

Maybe Neil _is_ about to do something stupid, because he opens his mouth, and the words tumble out, tasting of damnation.

“I’m not okay.” 

It’s the most broken sound he’s ever made. 

The silence between them digests his words, until they’re deformed and muted and distorted to his own ears, and he’s not sure if he said what he meant or if he meant what he said or if he even said it at all, but it’s done. 

The words.

They’re already gone. 

And who's to say they ever existed at all?

Andrew shifts his gaze towards the window, then towards Neil, lazily, like he’s accustomed to breathing life into his darkest secrets, like he’s used to falling apart, and he says, “Neither am I.”

“I don’t think I want to leave all of this behind yet."

“We don’t always get what we want,” Andrew tells him. “But we’re both still here.”

It’s the closest thing to absolution Neil has ever heard.

The look in Andrew’s eyes could freeze hell, like he’s mad at the world. But Neil can’t ask about why he opens his mouth, so he shuts up. He doesn’t want to test the depths of Andrew’s anger right now, because it finally feels like something is being made whole, only at the expense of his most difficult truth.

But that’s not quite right. 

Because it’s cost Andrew something, too. 

_Neither am I._

Neil is too numb to process what that means, what the broken _we’re both still here_ implies. He’s too numb to notice Andrew breaking until it’s too late, and by then, the damage is already done. All of Andrew’s splinters are embedded in Neil’s palms and there’s just as much blood on his hands as there is on Nicky’s and Aaron’s and everyone else in this goddamn world who’s watched Andrew struggle for air and done nothing about it. 

Andrew spins his unlit cigarette between his fingers wordlessly. 

This wasn’t what Neil wanted.

But he doesn’t know how to fix any of this when it feels like he’s empty, so he nods and he stares up at the ceiling as he swallows back a fresh wave of nausea. 

_I’m still here,_ he thinks, but it’s a weak placation that does nothing for the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

_I’m not okay._

He doesn’t know if he says the words out loud that time, or if they’re just a whisper in the back of his mind, but Andrew doesn’t say anything in response either way.

He shouldn’t want to run anymore, but he still does. And that's the funny thing: he thought those words would break him or fix him or change him, but they haven't done any of that. His restlessness hasn't disappeared, but it hasn't gotten any worse, either.

He's still here. Still waiting for this to all make sense.

Still not-okay. 

He doesn’t know the last time he held himself accountable like this.

 _I'm_ _here,_ he repeats. 

But it's Nathaniel’s cold voice that adds: _fo_ _r now._

As if it could ever be that simple. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Truth be told, I never was yours._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jO2_3pVd5k0)
> 
> ...ok time to spend the next week making my valentines themed gingerbread house and filing my taxes byeee <3 <3 <3


End file.
